I'M BACK!
First, let me apologize for disappearing and for pulling down my story. It was a difficult choice made with careful consideration for the plot's integrity, and I'm sorry if that was jarring.
I'd wanted to take a breather for a while for personal reasons. But also to focus on writing elements like structure, prose, point of view, and character development. The problem with starting this story with zero writing experience was that I had all these grand ideas in my head that I wasn't able to fully execute. I did the best that I could, but my 'best' was (and still is) a moving target. That meant that with every new chapter I posted, the older ones bothered me more and more. It's taken ten months of intermittent practice (and a lot of gentle prodding from my alpha-beta reader) for me to reach a point where I feel comfortable telling this story how I've always wanted to.
If you're worried that I'll pull this down again before it's finished, I can understand that concern. I can only promise you that I won't & that it's here to stay.
So. What's changed?
If you were up to date on the prior version, I had a bit of animosity between Hermione and Ron over Viktor in this first chapter. That is no longer included. This novel is already plot-heavy enough without exploring every rabbit hole. Other things that have changed: the point of view. No longer do we get to bounce between Draco and Hermione's heads and listen to their every thought. Each chapter will primarily follow one character's perspective, though I may break this format for short intervals where it makes sense to do so. What else has changed? Conversations, prose, characterizations, sentence structure, etc.… The overall theme and elements are the same. The high points that people loved are still included, and new scenes are added. Honestly, it's been a treat to rework each chapter while sparing the bones.
(I feel like I'm on one of those home improvement shows on HGTV, except my foundation is Google Docs, and my sledgehammer is my backspace button.)
And yes, this is still mature-rated because I *love* writing smut.
If you're not interested in continuing this story with me, that's absolutely fine. You are under no obligation. However, if you do stick around, please be kind. I'm a human being behind the keyboard. A breathing, flawed person fighting infinite battles, just like everyone else. Let's either shake hands as friends or part on good terms instead of exchanging blows.
With all that said… ENJOY! Seriously. I've loved every second of this process. If you feel even an ounce of entertainment while reading this, I'll be happy.
One last thing before I leave you:
I'd like to say a special thank you to my alpha-beta Rhianonnally. I could dedicate paragraphs about her endless patience and genius, but none of them would do her justice. To paint a clear picture of how awesome she is: I'm basically the character Charlie Kelly from the show 'It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia', a veritable idiot with half-baked ideas and literacy challenges. Meanwhile, Rhiannon is this wise, beautiful-soul, kind goddess who helps spin my garbage thought processes into gold. AND she sends me funny animal videos.
Words cannot express my gratitude, yet I'll try to use them anyway: with Rhiannon, this story is possible. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I am eternally grateful, forever indebted, and always at your service.
-LA91 (fanfiction writer only; not affiliated with the author who publishes on Amazon under the pseudonym Lady Amethyst, just to be clear)
Disclaimer: Draco is aged up a year in this universe because I wanted to write smut with adults
Update schedule: TBD
Other inquiries to: Ladyamethyst91writing at gmail dot com
Spotify playlist: 240 Mood (my writing inspo)
Publish date: 9/8/2022
Updated: 9/11/2022 SPaG
Beta-read by Rhianonnally
Hermione Granger was a principled young woman.
She valued order, justice, and comporting oneself with integrity, snubbing her nose at those who floundered through life with privilege like everything was easy, rote, and given. She'd cultivated a tough exterior as muggle-borns often did in the wizarding world, paving her pathway in Hogwarts as a leader to be respected. Sometimes, people mistook her brevity for rudeness since only a select few had witnessed her softer side. Private with her emotions, she wasn't apt to wear her heart on her sleeve. But that little beating organ inside her chest was as gentle and resilient as it was strong-willed. It granted her innumerable courage. The protective streak of a lioness with roots as grounded and deep as an evergreen tree. Her morals were anchored and unshakeable. Her behaviour… Predictable.
It was all the more reason she was baffled at present, sitting in this dreary classroom with its bleary lecture, jiggling her legs like she'd been struck with a hex. It wasn't magic that coursed through her veins at this moment, nor pragmatism, nor sense... But restless energy. An urge to do something drastic or reckless, to go against the grain and break the rules. It beckoned like a sweet mistress. The Gryffindor in her, rearing its head as it so often did.
It wasn't as if she'd never toed out of line. One didn't make it through seven years as the third link in Gryffindor's Golden Trio without causing some sort of mayhem. It was just that she was better than her best friends, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, at avoiding detection. A feat that had served her well through her appointment as prefect and, later, as Head Girl. She had a poker face that gamblers twice her age could only dream of mastering and the silver tongue to make politicians green with envy. All her admirable traits (and the less desirable ones) came from generations of stubborn Grangers and her mother's quiet but cunning people. Most professors recognised her tenacity for mastering subjects and were eager to award her with house points for any reason under the sun.
Though a few, like professor Slughorn, were resistant to her charms.
She could think of several reasons why that last bit was true (all of which were unfair). But sunk lower in her chair and glared at the chalkboard instead, blowing an errant curl from her eyes. Slughorn had drawn a diagram detailing his rise from a 'lowly student' to a 'master potioneer' and had instructed the class to 'write this ingenious down, post-haste.' So, naturally, her parchment was blank. Perhaps if the professor's Advanced Potion lecture wasn't so infinitely dull and self-serving, she'd have taken notes like the studious witch she was known to be instead of doodling. As it was, her inkwell was half used without a proper sentence in sight. Wrapped up in her imagination, she contemplated fifteen different ways to light the nearest curtains on fire and had settled on a subtle incendio spell when a slight cough roused her attention.
A sideways glance found her tablemate turned in his chair, a perplexed expression etched across his angular face.
"You're scheming something," came his accusatory whisper. As if his attention wasn't terrible enough, he arched a pale eyebrow and wore a stupid, handsome smirk. "If you're planning to blow this place up, at least wait until I'm out of my chair. The curtains are ancient and will catch aflame if you so much as wink."
Hermione rolled her eyes and jabbed her quill at her Slytherin partner's parchment, splattering his notes with black ink. Somehow, he always seemed to know exactly what she was thinking, and somehow, she'd yet to figure out his trick.
"Mind your business, Malfoy. That's ridiculous. I'm not contemplating anything of the sort."
Draco waved the ink away with his wand and faced her again, grey eyes resembling molten steel as he raked her body from her hips to her chest. His assessment was over so quickly she'd questioned if she'd imagined it, but the sharp thrill that ran up her spine when their gazes locked was nothing short of electric. Despite their animosity, she couldn't ignore the tension of an entirely different kind that settled between them whenever the silence dragged. It was part of why she detested him so much: through years of practice, he'd learned how to unravel her mind, body, and spirit until she was flustered.
"Uh-huh. Tell me, Granger… Is this seating arrangement so terrible that you're actually considering violence? Where's your bleeding heart? Your Gryffindor courage?"
She didn't bother answering. Draco Malfoy was one of the most infuriating people she'd ever met, not to mention one of the most dramatic. A well-timed fiendfyre spell cast in his general direction might have been doing the world a favour.
With his fair skin, white-blond hair, and dashing good looks, he bore a striking resemblance to an apostle from God rather than a devil, but his crafted disguise didn't fool her one bit. As academic rivals, they'd been pitted against each other since the tender age of eleven. At first, Hermione had made the mistake of thinking they could be friends, though any notion of forming an alliance was squandered when he'd laughed at her buck teeth, made fun of her braces, and declared her an abomination unfit to walk Hogwarts' hallowed halls. He hadn't called her a mudblood outright, but he might as well have with all the vitriol spewing from his smarmy little pre-teen mouth.
It was a miracle she hadn't killed him on the spot, though that could also be attributed to the (dismal) truth that her spell repertoire lacked anything with a proper sting at that age. She'd suffered his verbal torment for three weeks before mustering the courage to sock him in the jaw, and ever since then, they'd settled on hating each other from afar. Their matched skill set meant they'd shared most of their classes, though Draco always made it a point to sit as far away as possible after she'd bared her bite.
From a distance, she'd feel his eyes boring into her skull. Whenever she entered a room, she'd hear the mocking tone in his whisper, even if she couldn't quite make out his words. It'd driven her crazy until Harry had given her the best advice she'd ever received: ignore the bloody bastard.
That was when she'd discovered Draco's biggest weakness: he hated her casual disregard. He'd spent twice as much time trying to snag her attention in every way imaginable: throwing crumpled parchment at her curls, raising his voice until professors deducted points, and flinging breezes at her backside whenever no one was looking. When that failed to yield results, he'd doubled his efforts by becoming even more obnoxious, picking fights with her friends until she'd intervened. As such, they'd fallen into a routine for the past few years. Whenever Hermione would raise her hand in class (which, let's face it, was often), Draco would raise his too and make a counterargument, even when it was clear he was playing devil's advocate and didn't believe a word coming out of his own mouth.
His behaviour had been annoying at first. Then, it'd bordered on entertaining, for how could she not be amused when he'd purposely made a fool of himself just to get under her skin? This performative nature continued until fourth year, when he'd sprouted an additional foot of height and had filled out his clothing in a distracting, albeit pleasing way… Not that she'd ever ogled.
Puberty had hit them all differently with its ugly little gifts, leaving Hermione with monthly acne and awkward curves while transforming Draco from a pinch-faced ferret into a lithe, graceful swan. He'd lost interest in playing the class jester and had morphed into a rather serious student. No longer did he derive obvious pleasure from antagonising Hermione or anyone else. In fact, he'd acted like sullying himself by throwing insults was now beneath his status. The change was too little too late since she'd already grown immune to his tricks by that point and had thought of him less and less as academia became her singular purpose.
That was why sitting next to him now was so confusing. She felt gobsmacked and blinded by his quiet reserve, like she knew this boy like the back of her hand, yet somehow, he was still a mystery. Even though the semester had started three weeks ago, they'd hardly spoken a word in the several dozen hours they'd spent together at this cramped little table. It was as if the past seven years had never happened, like the history between them was a faraway, faded nightmare that neither wanted to drag into the light.
Draco seemed content to ignore her instead of vying for her attention, treating her like she was an annoying fly buzzing in his ear. If she spoke about their assignments, he'd sigh and scoot his chair farther away. If she raised her hand, he'd examine his nails and refuse to look up until she was finished speaking. If they brewed over a shared cauldron, he'd glance anywhere in the room that wasn't Hermione-shaped. Despite the fact that she'd treated him like dirt beneath her boot for years, she found his new behaviour offensive. It was somehow even worse than when he'd called her an abomination.
He couldn't leave her side fast enough and often bolted from the classroom before most people had even finished packing their bags. The fact that he was speaking to her today, unprompted, meant she must have been muttering aloud about wanting to light the room on fire. Whatever this new game was, Hermione would figure out the rules and meet Draco's stride match for match.
"How's this for courage? I'm on to you, Malfoy," Hermione whispered low in his ear, noting how he shivered. "I will exploit you. I will demolish you."
Draco's cheeks flushed bright red at the threat.
"Try it, you wackadoodle, and see what happens."
Hermione settled back in her seat with a dignified hmph, watching Draco's hands as they clenched into tight fists like he was five seconds away from punching the table. The little Head Girl badge sewn onto her breast pocket should have marked her as an exemplary character. Above starting such petty fights without justifiable cause. Still, she'd lost her immunity to Draco Malfoy from the moment she'd been forced to sit at his side. Call it stupid or call it hormonal, but the way she'd sometimes catch his lingering stare, dark and hooded like he was thinking nasty, perverted thoughts, made her wish she was a Legilimens capable of prying open his deepest secrets.
Getting even with him for his former bullying and embarrassing him in the process was the least he deserved, no matter how 'reformed' he claimed to be.
With her hand poised over her parchment, Hermione doodled imperfect circles while Professor Slughorn droned about their next assignment: the Felix Felicis potion. Slughorn, oblivious as always, had yet to comment on the animosity brewing between two of his students and had instead spent an exorbitant amount of time trying to corral everyone into coming to his little soiree. The Slug Club (or The Boys' Club, as Hermione referred to it) was a horrendous affair that neither she nor Draco would ever be caught dead attending. It was one of the few things they'd ever agreed upon without blinking twice.
She was distracted by that thought when Draco's enormous shoe thudded against hers under the table. Sprawled in his chair with his long legs extended like he owned both halves of the desk, Draco absorbed the meagre space like it was his God-given right to do so. Hermione kicked at his ankle and grinned as he jerked away and cursed, dragging his chair across the stone with a loud scrape.
"Watch it," he said, leaning down to rub his ankle as if her strike had hurt.
Hermione chewed the inside of her cheek as he rolled up his trousers and shoved down his argyle sock. The skin underneath was red, but it probably wouldn't bruise. Somewhat chastened by her violent outburst, she wrinkled her nose and tried to ignore his heated glare. Even with all of their arguing, laying hands (or feet) on each other was a rare occurrence and hadn't happened since she'd punched him in first year. It was a testament to how odd he behaved now that she was breaking free of their typical mould.
"Let that be a warning for more to come. Stay on your side of the table."
She flicked his parchment away and drew an imaginary line with her finger down the centre of the wooden top. If it was possible for Draco to look even more enraged, this was the moment she should perhaps reach for her wand in self-defence. Instead, Hermione watched in fascination as Draco shuddered and closed his eyes, drawing in deep, even breaths like he was attempting to meditate in the middle of the lecture.
Goodness, she really was getting under his skin if he couldn't even stand to look at her.
Perfect.
Now that she had sufficient space and silence to relax, she reverted to her favourite pastime during boring lectures, one that she frequented at every possible moment: daydreaming. No one ever expected her to drift off in class since she held such a sterling reputation as Hogwarts' leading swot, but carrying that burden came with a heavy toll. Her brain was a minefield of useful and useless information, a never-ending, complex stream of consciousness that fixated on scenarios until she'd exhausted every viable avenue.
Lately, instead of fantasising about freeing the house-elves or leading Great Britain into a golden age of sustainability, she'd fixated on something less altruistic and inherently more selfish: romance.
At once, Jane Austen-esque scenes flood the backs of her eyelids with flowery prose, orchestrated music, and colourful costumes. She was powerless to resist the invasion and rested her chin on her fist, breathing a dreamy sigh. If Draco could meditate to clear his mind, she could let hers wander away to another realm where devilishly handsome Potions partners were phantoms from the past. The only man who existed in this land of make-believe was her long-distance pen pal and tentative crush, Viktor Krum.
Dream Viktor was dressed as a dashing Regency hero, riding atop a stallion with the wind billowing his cloak and a bouquet of wildflowers clutched in his grip. It was a far cry from what the real Viktor would do if she ever saw him again—he was more likely to sweep through a quidditch pitch astride a broom and pull a golden snitch out from behind her ear—but Hermione was a romantic at heart and couldn't help but fantasise about the possibilities, top-hat included.
The problem with this particular fantasy was that it had a history of devolving into debauchery as soon as Viktor leapt from his horse. One sniff of the bouquet later and any pretence of a fade-to-black, Catholic-grandmother-approved romance vanished into the ether like pixie dust. Blood rushed to Hermione's cheeks as her heart pounded in her ears, making her squirm in her chair like a love-struck ninny. A warm, damp heat settled between her thighs as she crossed and uncrossed her legs, trying to relieve the building ache.
"Hermy-own," murmured Viktor. "Be mine." His firm hands cupped her arse, kneading her cheeks through her flouncy skirt until their hips aligned. Breathless and burning with desire, Hermione whispered a fractured, "Always," as he fumbled with her corset's silk ties. The boning loosened, baring the tops of her breasts as Viktor ducked his head, his mouth poised and lips wetted, the stubble on his jaw rough against her skin until -
"Merlin," came Draco's strangled gasp. Startled, Hermione's eyes snapped open, expecting to find him watching her, judging her, though he was facing the wall with his bag on his lap, staring resolutely out the window like something interesting was happening beyond the glass.
"What?" she asked, frowning as he stiffened and refused to answer. Unperturbed, she cracked her knuckles around her quill and tried to listen once again to Slughorn's lecture. It proved futile as her eyes drifted sideways. This wasn't the first time Draco had disrupted her dreams just when they were heating up. It was as if he could somehow tell she was thinking of explicit material and disapproved. The interruptions had happened so often that, for a brief moment, she'd wondered if he was casting a constant legilimency charm. But that couldn't be possible. Few wizards in history had ever mastered the complicated spell, and the Ministry had outlawed its use decades ago because of its abusive potential.
Hermione took advantage of his distraction and studied his back, his broad, tense shoulders, and the dark flush staining his neck. She could almost feel the heat radiating from him. Not for the first time, she wondered (in an abstract, non-serious sort of way) if his skin felt as smooth as it looked. If beneath her fingertips, the touch would burn. He must have sensed her stare since he jerked away as if scalded, glaring over his shoulder with an expression that bordered between murderous and aroused.
There wasn't enough time in the world to unpack that look, so she faced forward again, gulping, and focused with all her might on Slughorn: the protrusion of his rounded belly, the sallow colouring of his skin, his wiry, unkempt hair, and the grating, monotonous tone of his voice.
It was enough to clear her head.
Oblivious to her scrutiny, the professor waltzed down the aisle with his hands clasped over his midsection, spouting nonsense with a dash of didactic material thrown in as an afterthought.
Slughorn had an uncontested talent for making Hermione want to bludgeon herself unconscious with the nearest blunt object. Repeatedly. Without mercy. It was hard to peg down the exact reason she despised him since there were so many to choose from. Though, she supposed the way he collected accomplished students like they were golden chess pieces, pawns in his networking game for him to call on later for favours, bothered her the most. All the schmoozing was a waste of precious class time. And yes, she realised how hypocritical that sounded when she was the one daydreaming during his class.
But, she wasn't the one challenged with leading Hogwarts' brightest potioneers into a prospering potential career. He was. And he was in the middle of another nonsensical story, unaware of Hermione's longing to cast an incendio spell at his feet.
Indeed, almost anything was better than listening to the professor's drivel for another second. Even a poltergeist's prank would have made for a welcome reprieve.
Borrowing a strategy from Draco's playbook, Hermione closed her eyes and tried to meditate, counting backwards from one hundred until her breathing slowed and the urge to commit petty crimes faded like a distant ache. Arms crossed against her bosom, she conjured pleasant memory after pleasant memory, replaying joyful events: her friends' induction to the quidditch team, the Speedcubing competition she'd won in Stevenage at age seven, the time she almost tied with Bill and Percy Weasley for the most OWLS ever awarded… The montage continued until she settled, with a soft smile, on her fondest memory of late. A special moment with Viktor and their time spent together as summer camp arithmancy counsellors in Ireland.
In the bay town of Kenmare stood the O'Sullivan Academy, a dilapidated, under-funded wizarding camp holding itself upright by the last few scraps of its paltry donations. The program director had posted a desperate advertisement in The Daily Prophet promising an exciting 'Special Guest' for the June cohort. Even though the message had hit thousands of subscribers' doorsteps, it'd done little to garner interest.
Five wizards answered the call to tutor: a grey-haired, wild-eyed English arithmancer named Gerald, who was as famous and gifted as he was insane, and two kind Chinese nationals, a married couple with salt and pepper hair, who smiled but were otherwise disinterested in small talk. After making introductions and establishing herself as the camp's fourth tutor, Hermione turned and saw the fifth volunteer at the precise moment he ducked through the door.
The sunlight had followed him inside the dingy room, glancing off his bronze skin and casting attractive shadows on his smile. He was square-jawed, familiar-looking, and handsome beyond reason as if sculpted by Michelangelo himself. Quiet confidence oozed in his every step, making Hermione's heart pound against her chest like a beating drum. His gaze lingered on hers as he traded pleasantries first with the other tutors, clapping Gerald's back before striding in her direction and introducing himself as Viktor. Thick-accented, it was hard to understand him initially. She had to strain while listening, though she realised his command of English grammar and vocabulary was impeccable. The way he regarded her like she was an equal made her like him immediately, especially since she was clearly out of place amongst this older crowd.
When Hermione didn't bat an eye at his surname, he clarified that he was a quidditch player, as if this information held some significance. She assumed he was an arithmancer first and that he flew in a European amateur league, nodding as one does when feigning interest in someone else's hobby.
"Two of my best friends, Ronald and Harry, also play quidditch. One is a seeker, and the other plays keeper at Hogwarts. They're both rather good, actually, and want to try their luck professionally."
Viktor nodded with a disarming wink. "Is that so? Maybe I'll see them on the pitch someday."
Hermione offered a weak smile in return and thought of how to change the subject. Harry and Ron wanted to play for the Chudley Cannons in England, not some backyard team in Eastern Europe, but who was she to throw stones when she barely tolerated the game? Maybe Viktor had connections or could offer advice on navigating the sport outside of school.
"So, Viktor. Inquiring minds want to know. Are you a student as well?"
She'd bet her entire coin purse on his answer. He had to be at least in his early twenties, judging by his trimmed black facial hair and the faint sun lines etched in the corners of his eyes. Broad shoulders framed his sturdy frame, while faded white scars peppered his hands and cheeks. Dressed in black, he looked more like a rogue than any wizard of her acquaintance at Hogwarts and was taller than Hermione by several heads.
Viktor grinned with the full force of his million-dollar smile, making Hermione's knees wobble.
"I attended Durmstrang some years ago, but I'm twenty-two. Forgive me if this sounds presumptuous, but do you really not know who I am? I realise that's odd to ask. It's just… I can't believe my luck."
Warmth spread across Hermione's cheeks.
"You do look a little familiar…." She paused, trying to place his face. "But I really couldn't say. Are you a published researcher like the other tutors? Maybe that's where I've seen your picture before… On a book cover in the shops?"
That answer seemed to tickle him since he boomed with laughter, patting her shoulder like she'd told an excellent joke. Hermione tried to clarify what was so hilarious about her question, but the program director interrupted and ushered everyone inside the auditorium before she could ask. Time slowed in flashes of bright camera bulbs when they crossed through the double doors. The sound of shutters blinking and journalists yelling with questions wrapped around Hermione's mind like a dizzying fog.
"It's Krum!" echoed from all sides of the room.
Children squealed and catapulted from their seats, tripping down the aisle with their pamphlets raised for an autograph.
Viktor swept around Hermione with a gentle squeeze of her shoulder, hopping atop the stage and addressing the crowd like this was any typical day. Meanwhile, she tried her best not to black out from shock, collapsing into a chair in the front row. It took several seconds for the frazzled, misfiring synapses in her brain to process this onslaught of information and grasp their connections. All the while, stars flashed before her vision as she floundered like a blubbering fish.
Hours later, she realised she'd been photographed… Forever memorialised in the cover feature of that evening's paper.
"VIKTOR KRUM, quidditch extraordinaire and apparent arithmetician dazzles a dozen bright minds and one damsel in distress at the O'Sullivan Arithmancy Academy in Kenmare, Ireland," read the caption.
It'd taken several letters to Harry and Ron to convince them that the Prophet article wasn't a prank. Then, it'd taken a scheduled telephone call to Harry's house (with Ron at his side) before they'd exhausted their questions, congratulating her with a job well done on snagging Viktor's contact information.
"This is brilliant," came Ron's garbled shout into the phone's receiver, the connection crackling. "Can you hear me, 'Mione? It's bloody brilliant!"
Sighing, Hermione scribbled Viktor's name across her parchment in neat cursive letters, dotting the 'i' with a heart. It was foolish to flaunt her affections in front of Draco since anything she did could give him new ammunition to hold over her head… So, she shielded the parchment with her hand. One cleansing spell later, the sheet was blank, and she sketched Viktor's face instead. Since the drawing was more of a Picasso than a Monet, it was unlikely her tablemate would make the connection with the quidditch hunk.
Still, she'd got Viktor's beard correct and doodled a few extra squiggles for good measure.
"That looks nothing like me," came Draco's offhand remark. "I shaved this morning, and even when I do grow a beard, it doesn't look haggard like that. Are those pubic hairs sprouting from my cheeks or a pygmy puff?"
Hermione covered the drawing with both palms.
"This isn't you… You pompous, thick-headed prat."
She flipped her parchment to the blank side and scooted to the edge of the table, glaring at Draco as he smirked.
She didn't want to think about Draco with a beard. She didn't want to think about Draco at all.
Viktor was a good man with a gentle soul worthy of her admiration. Any witch with working eyes and half a brain would have been charmed silly by his maturity. Or enamoured with how he managed children with the patience of a saint. The two weeks they'd spent together in that dilapidated camp had felt like a lifetime. A tiny piece of her heart was still there, forever in Ireland, for him to hold if he dared.
Ginny Weasley, her third best friend and most ardent supporter of anything Viktor-related, had said it was fate that brought the two of them together in the most unlikely of places.
"I know you don't believe in reading the stars, but the night sky's been active with meteors ever since you returned from camp. Do you know what that means?" said Ginny, eyes wide with excitement.
"Um…." Hermione shrugged. "That rock fragments are barrelling through the Earth's atmosphere at unimaginable velocity?"
"Uh, yes, but no. It means that a significant change is coming. A gift. Maybe this is related to Viktor."
Unlike Ginny, Hermione didn't believe in divination, nor was she religious or a believer in 'God's plan' despite her Catholic upbringing. Fate was something for the novels, for the fictional stories lining her bookshelves. In real life, people fell in love for a cocktail of reasons unrelated to fiction or deities, a blend of hormones, mutual interests, and values, not because meteors fell from the sky.
It surprised her when, two weeks after her conversation with Ginny, Viktor sent a literal gift in the post. At first, she hadn't ascribed any special meaning to the bulky knit sweater other than Viktor was thinking of her (and the season was getting colder)… Which, truth be told, might have meant he was thinking of her a lot. According to Ginny, men didn't buy women's clothing or send a personal gift like this without a reason, which Harry and Ron supported.
It'd made the few letters she'd been able to exchange with Viktor even more significant, as it was no easy feat to capture his time. But Viktor was a gentleman through and through and always wrote her back, even if it was just a quick observation or a simple inquiry about her health.
She knew they were friends before anything else and that he valued her acquaintance. He'd used the word 'friend' often at the beginning of their correspondence, signing his letters as 'Your friend, Viktor,' before graduating to the short, sweet, and loaded, 'Yours, V.' The first time he'd called himself hers, Hermione had blushed the rest of the day and squealed with Ginny for half an hour. As such, it was challenging to remain patient when the time between their letters lengthened. She knew he was busy. She also knew that he liked her. At least on some level, that statement had to be true. So, she trusted her instinct in the matter of his feelings… Even if he had declared none outright.
Part of her wished Ginny was right about divination and that parlour tricks like crystal gazing were more than smoke and mirrors, so she could glimpse into her future. This 'being patient' stage was driving her mad. If left to her own devices, Hermione would fidget and overthink, and speculating led to doubts. How could a wizard as ambitious, creative, and intelligent as Viktor be interested in a witch so much younger and so far beneath his station? Half of the time, she wondered if she'd imagined his affection or if he was simply that touchy with all his friends, throwing them one-armed hugs and patting their shoulders like it was nothing.
Come to think of it, maybe all the touching was meaningless, and he viewed her like a little sister….
Too mortified to entertain that thought for another second, Hermione decided that the actual reason that Viktor was taking things at a snail's pace was because he was a gentleman. In fact, it was probably because he carried such a torch for her that he kept referring to them as friends, afraid he would scare her off with more. He knew she was inexperienced. She'd blurted that information in his face at camp.
"So." Hermione stabbed her fork into her burnt lump of pasta. "A little bird shared an interesting observation today."
Viktor's eyes crinkled in the corners. "By 'little bird', do you mean Gerald?" He glanced over her shoulder at the wild-eyed, English arithmancer-turned-volunteer chef who'd graced the camp with his 'superior' cooking skills when the actual chef fell ill.
"Indeed." Hermione grinned as Viktor struggled to suppress his chuckle. "He said I spend too much time bumbling about with the best seeker in the world, and my brain is at risk of being jumbled by a bludger if our acquaintance continues any longer. Apparently, this was a prediction he noted in the swallows' flight patterns. Although, it sounds more like something you'd read in a divination textbook rather than what you'd hear coming from a published arithmancer's mouth." She flicked a piece of lint off her plate. "It's insane."
Viktor shrugged. "Maybe. But what's sanity, anyway? Perhaps he misread the signs and is sleep deprived, or he bonked his head on the cot."
Hermione glanced over her shoulder. "Shall we ask him if he's seeing stars?"
Viktor nudged her under the table and left his foot on top of hers, covering his laughter with his napkin. The pair found great amusement in deciphering Gerald's strange behaviours and had settled on agreeing that neither of them was equipped to decode the peculiar wizard. The man had a reputation among academia for his eccentricity, a quality he'd demonstrated every morning like clockwork, rising with the sun to shout at the birds and the trees, to the children's terror and the program director's disgruntlement.
Hermione pushed the remnants of her 'dinner' aside and rested her chin on her fist.
"So… How plausible is a head injury at a quidditch match, anyway?"
"Hermy-own…." Viktor mispronounced her name on purpose. "The risk is statistically unlikely. One in three professional matches has a spectator injury, and most are mild, so I'd say you're rather safe. Now, I'll consult with the birds if you're truly concerned…." His voice lowered to a murmur, one finger tapping the table. "But if you agree to come to one of my matches, I promise I'll do everything possible to protect your head. Are you partial to helmets?"
Hermione smiled as warmth filled her chest, tentatively rubbing her ankle against Viktor's as she shifted in her chair, making it look like an accident in case he wasn't receptive.
"Maybe, but they flatten my hair. Is the other part true, then? Are you actually the best seeker in the world?"
It was shameful to admit, but for as many hours as she'd spent listening to the Weasleys and Harry rave about their favourite sport, she was clueless about the rankings at the international level. She understood the ins and outs of the rules like any other wizard but couldn't tell a Wonky Faint from a Finbourgh Flick and hadn't cared to know the difference until now.
Viktor's cheeks were ruddy and dark, stained with an attractive flush as he cleared his throat several times like food was stuck in his windpipe. Under the table, his ankle was locked against hers.
"For now, I'm the best seeker, but I've had years of training and discipline under my belt. With every passing season, more players join the league. Maybe your Ron or your Harry will topple my place on the podium someday."
He took a sip of water and studied her over the rim. Hermione blushed at his obvious meaning and was quick to correct him.
"Harry and Ron are not 'mine'. We're just friends."
Viktor's smile widened like she'd made his entire evening. "Is that so?"
"Very much so. I've never dated anyone."
She'd been incredibly embarrassed by her unprompted confession, though Viktor was a gentleman yet again and had saved her from humiliation by sharing that he'd also rarely dated. It'd been one of their last conversations before the camp's closing, and it was a memory she reverted to whenever she needed reassurance that she hadn't imagined things between them.
Hermione may have been prickly to most, but she was soft-hearted and wanted to be in love more than (almost) anything else. It seemed like everyone around her was pairing up with their better half: Ginny with Harry, Ron with Lavender Brown, Neville Longbottom with Hannah Abbott, Anthony Goldstein with Padma Patil… The list went on and on, with Hermione's name scribbled off to the side by itself. Was it asking too much for someone to look out for her like Harry looked out for Ginny, ensuring she ate before exams? For someone to hold her hand like Ron held Lavender's, always present whenever she was lonely?
The countless romance novels she'd read told her that her time was coming. She was a woman now, damn it, and love was in sight. It had to be, for she was already eighteen years old and felt the clock ticking in her ovaries. It was ridiculous to feel pressured by arbitrary societal rules. But young marriages (and young families) were more common than not in the conservative wizarding world, and engagements before the end of the seventh year were typical. Hermione knew she wouldn't be one of those betrothed witches, but still, if she went on at least one date this year, she'd be happy… Or, better yet, if Viktor declared his intentions before graduation, she'd be over the moon.
With a resolute nod, she returned her attention to the present. It didn't do any good to waste class time fretting about things beyond her control. It wasn't like she could wish on the stars for someone to fancy her and have it come true.
Slughorn was still rambling about something unrelated to the lecture, a 'hilarious' recounting of the time he'd poisoned Snape with a giggling potion back when he was a student (which, while illegal, was also funny). Draco snorted at her side, drawing a mangy dog on his parchment with an uncanny resemblance to Slughorn defecating into a hole. Hermione was distracted now and watched Draco's hands flit across the parchment, shading the ground with his fingertips like he was working with kohl instead of ink. It surprised her that he dirtied his skin when he used to tease her for the ink stains under her nails. It also surprised her that he clearly detested their professor just as much as she did, even though Slughorn acted rather chummy with Draco like they were old Slytherin pals. She supposed it was the Malfoy charm and the gold lining his pockets that drew people to him in droves.
If Slughorn could see Malfoy's creation now, she wondered if he'd still be so kind.
With that thought fresh in her mind, Hermione closed her eyes and drifted into another daydream. It started in chaotic fragments, morphing from Slughorn caught in various archaic torture devices to herself holding a whip. Next, Draco was chained and bound to a wall while she struck his ankles with said whip, before Viktor appeared and smacked his leather belt against his thigh while ordering her to bend over.
Finally, this was more like it. She'd been a very naughty witch today and was long overdue for punishment. Breathing hard now, Hermione imagined Viktor's palms working up her thighs until he cupped her arse. He'd spank her hard and make her moan, then kiss his handprint and start again. The torture wouldn't stop until she was begging him to mount her, to guide his cock inside her wet warmth and lose himself in the sensation.
The dream grew more out of hand with every passing second, making her shiver in her chair as her nipples tightened and her entire body tingled. She was insatiable with lust, moaning incoherently in her mind like a wanton woman, fingers gripped in Viktor's hair as he bucked inside her. A soft groan emitted from her side, though Hermione mistook its origin and thought she was imagining Viktor's voice, rough and deep in her ear.
If Hermione was a wiser witch, she might have abstained from indulging in erotic fantasies while sitting in public, but she'd never claimed wisdom as one of her inherent traits. This was ever more prominent now as she slid lower in her seat until the stiff seam from her stockings lodged against her clit, applying just enough pressure to make her throb.
"Fuck," came a thick grunt, too loud and too real for Hermione to ignore.
Draco, the bane of her existence, was staring down at her with twin flames rising high on his cheeks.
"Granger, you are moaning like bloody fucking Myrtle."
Hermione jerked upward in her chair and yanked on her stockings in vain, trying to loosen their grip around her midsection. In the process, she ripped the thin material with her nails, which didn't go unnoticed by her partner.
"What the hell are you doing now? Trying to undress?"
"Shut up." Hermione cast a quiet reparo spell and glared at Draco as the fibres mended. "Leave me alone, Malfoy. I was thinking about Slughorn's story."
If Draco could die from laughter, Hermione thought this would be the moment she'd be free of him forever. He was doubled over in his chair, cackling so hard that only a gasping wheeze escaped from his lungs. Since his demise was imminent, she snatched his parchment and wrote a short eulogy above the drawing of Slughorn, then slid it in front of his face.
Here lies Draco Lucius Malfoy, the world's most flagrant drama king, dead as a doornail from laughing at something only he found funny. Let us mourn him by burying his remains in Slughorn's stink hole.
It had an opposite, unexpected effect on Draco. Instead of making him angry or shutting him up, he wheezed anew and clapped her back with enough force to jostle her forward.
"Shit," he said, wiping the tears from his cheeks. "I knew I always liked you. I'm framing this masterpiece."
Hermione narrowed her eyes at Draco and gave him her profile, no longer interested in continuing this conversation. They'd already caught the attention of their busybody Hufflepuff neighbours from across the aisle, Justin Finch-Fletchley, and his girlfriend since toddlerhood, Susan Bones. The pair wore identical pendants fastened to their uniforms and always matched their outfits on the weekends. Hermione didn't mind Susan as a fair-weathered friend but thought Justin was always annoying and tried not to land on his radar any more often than necessary.
The couple stared at Hermione and Draco like they had front seat tickets to a comedy show, faces rapt with delight. Justin was openly sniggering, not even trying to be quiet.
"Whatever it is you're thinking of saying next, Malfoy, keep it to yourself," muttered Hermione. "We have an audience with the badgers."
Draco snorted and dragged his palm over his jaw.
"If you keep making me laugh, the Eagles will swoop from their nests and squawk."
Hermione glanced forward at the sea of blue and bronze accessories on her classmates' tables and fought against a wan smile. Only four students in this cohort weren't Ravenclaws, and all four had been relegated to the back of the classroom like second-class citizens. Anthony, head boy and runner-up to Hermione in OWL scores, revelled in his superior seating choice next to Slughorn's lectern by always getting the first pick of ingredients and supplies from the cupboard. It hadn't helped him surpass her abilities yet, though she supposed it was only a matter of time before she was left with some wilted, rotting plant since she and Draco had the last pick of everything. Including partners.
That last little tidbit had made them the butt of the joke on the first day of class. For obvious reasons, no one had wanted to partner with a Slytherin, and since Hermione had arrived five minutes after the start of the hour, she'd been stuck with Draco by default. She could still recall Anthony's smug little smirk as he patted her shoulder.
"Given your excellent choice in partnership, I suppose I have nothing to worry about this year. Looks like I'll be the one graduating with top NEWTS."
If there was a second thing in this world that Hermione and Draco had ever agreed upon, it was that Anthony Goldstein was a git who had it coming.
"Do you think I can strike him from here?" she whispered, not bothering to explain which 'him' she was referring to. Draco followed her gaze and crumpled a blank sheet of parchment in his fist, sliding it sideways.
"Go for it."
Hermione glanced at his offering, then up at his grey eyes, swallowing hard as they softened in the corners.
"If I do this, it's because I want to, not because you want me to."
Draco gave her an odd look and nodded once.
"Clearly, you're autonomous."
Hermione lobbed the parchment at the back of Anthony's skull and ducked behind her book when he startled and turned around.
"Very smooth," Draco murmured, holding up both hands with his fingers spread wide. "A ten out of ten. He actually looks offended."
Hermione hid her smile behind her fist.
"Uh-oh, Granger, he's looking this way…. "
"So? Stop talking and making it obvious."
Draco grimaced. "Now he's walking this way…."
"What!" Hermione gasped and dropped her textbook with a bang. Anthony was still seated in his chair, facing the chalkboard with his head held high like he was above engaging in back row shenanigans. An icy shiver trickled down her spine as she realised she'd been tricked into reacting by Draco.
"Miss Granger." Slughorn tapped his wand against his palm. "While I appreciate your enthusiasm for my story, I do not appreciate being interrupted. I'm afraid I must deduct five points for speaking out of turn. Please raise your hand if you have something you'd like to contribute to the class."
Hermione turned her heated glare sideways. If Draco wasn't such a smarmy person, she wouldn't have cost her housemates precious points. Draco also seemed to make that connection, as he had the mind to look slightly chagrined. He opened his mouth like he wanted to apologise, but Hermione jabbed her quill into his ribs before he could voice any more lies.
"Stop speaking," she whispered. "I don't want to hear another word from you until Christmas."
Draco looked offended now, scooting his chair closer despite the growing ink blot on his robe. The chair's legs made an awful scraping sound against the stone floor that garnered grumbles from several neighbouring tables.
"Listen," he said. "I'll let that one slide since you're off your game today, but we need to talk about these disruptive little fantasies of yours."
"My disruptive little what?"
Hermione almost snapped her quill in half with the strength of her white-knuckled grip.
"You heard me, Granger. Those little dreams you keep having? About shagging or whatever the fuck it is you're thinking about that makes you writhe in your chair and moan? They need to stop. Now."
Hermione was too stunned to reply for several beats.
"No, you listen, Malfoy. I was not moaning earlier-"
"-You were."
"And I was not fantasising about anything-"
"-That's a lie."
Hermione smacked her palm on the table, bellowing, "Will you shut up and let me speak!"
Every head snapped in their direction. Slughorn, affronted that she'd interrupted his story again, deducted five additional house points before returning to his lectern, frazzled and tugging at his lapels. The professor then awarded five house points to his most ardent listeners (the Ravenclaws, those brown-nosers) before resigning himself to continuing with the didactic material.
"It seems that everyone is antsy for lunch today… The back row, especially. Why don't we make the rest of this quick? Please open your books to page ninety-seven and follow along."
Slughorn prattled on about the indication and side effects of the Felix Felicis potion. After he covered the last paragraph on unexpected outcomes, he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small phial of golden, shimmering liquid, instructing Anthony to pass it around the room.
"Since brewing this potion can be fatal if precautions aren't taken, the Ministry's protocols require that you work in pairs. As such, you must proctor the other's performance and be present while ingredients are added or the concoction is stirred. That little glass phial in Miss Patil's hands is deceptively difficult to brew. While you'll only make enough potion to fill a shot glass after evaporation, this will take you six months to finish and hundreds of hours of your time. Since we have limited room availability and a full load of other potions to study and brew to prepare for your exams, you must designate a day and place outside of these walls to tend to your Liquid Luck."
The edges of Hermione's vision blurred with black shapes like she'd been tilted upside down, the air whooshing from her lungs in a single rapid burst. Did Slughorn really just say she was required to spend hundreds of hours outside of class with Draco Malfoy?
Hand flailing in the air, she waited with bated breath for Slughorn to call on her.
"Yes, Miss Granger?"
"Professor…." She gulped in oxygen. "Forgive me if I misheard your instructions, but isn't it safer to brew such a dangerous potion during class? Where you, the Ministry's most famed potioneer, can proctor our progress?"
Slughorn looked chuffed at the recognition.
"Indeed, Miss Granger, that would be the safest option… I see you were listening earlier. Well done." He straightened his bowtie. "Though, that would also be the most impractical option if you ever hope to pass the potion NEWT. Unfortunately, these are the hands we are dealt by the school's governors and the Ministry, and all of us must make sacrifices."
Hermione didn't understand what sort of sacrifice Slughorn felt he was making but clamped her mouth shut as he levitated an empty glass jar from the cupboard.
"The Head Girl brings up an excellent point as to the complexity of this assignment. Since dangerous chemical reactions can occur, I've charmed one anti-explosion jar per group." He twisted off the lid and placed the glass on Padma's table. "Once the lid is unscrewed…." He pointed his wand. "Any explosion will find its way into the jar. Confringo!"
A potted plant burst into fragments, shrapnel sucking into a whirring magical void before anyone could blink.
"Are there any other questions?" Slughorn asked, clapping his hands for dismissal when no one raised their hands.
It could have been seconds, minutes, or hours before Hermione regained the ability to move her legs. Every student had left except for her tablemate, whose limbs seemed just as sludge-filled as hers, his usually calm demeanour shattered with an ugly scowl. How bad of an example would she set to the underclassmen if she begged Professor McGonagall to let her drop this course? And how bad of an infraction would that be against her resume? The Ministry of Magic was exceedingly strict with its hiring process and only selected a few fresh graduates annually to fill their lower vacancies….
She was so caught up debating her future that she'd almost forgotten Draco was still in his seat. He sighed with the strength of a dozen despondent men and swung his satchel forward, sweeping his books inside. He must have felt her staring since he stiffened like she'd slapped him, levelling her with the full weight of his icy glare.
"Do you enjoy making me uncomfortable?"
Hermione's cheeks flooded with warmth as she grappled for a witty reply. When none came, Draco rolled his eyes.
"Fine. Stare all you want. I don't care. The next six months will be the worst moments in my entire life, but at least you'll suffer even more than I will. Are you sure you can handle it? I bet McGonagall will let you drop if you beg…."
Rising to his bait, Hermione tucked a loose curl behind her ear and met Draco's steely gaze, willing her voice to sound stronger than she felt.
"Not a chance, Malfoy. I can handle you, but can you handle me?"
Draco shoved away from the table, making a show of stomping and banging open the door like splintering the wood was his goal.
When Hermione entered the corridor in his wake, Susan and Justin were waiting for her by the landing with wide eyes. The three watched as Draco barrelled down the Grand Staircase with his posture as rigid as a metal rod, students flinging out of his path.
"Er, now that the devil's gone back to hell, shall we go downstairs?" asked Justin, holding out his arm for Susan.
Hermione flicked Justin's ear as they stepped onto the swivelling platform.
"I have a bone to pick with you for laughing earlier."
"Oh, that?" Justin rubbed his earlobe. "Sorry, not sorry. Watching you and Malfoy tip-toe around your marital issues is the highlight of my morning."
Hermione's steps slowed as confusion rattled her brain.
"Marital issues? What is that supposed to mean?"
Susan smacked Justin's chest.
"Oh, don't listen to him. He's an instigator and won't shut up about you and Malfoy. He has this theory, you see, that Malfoy is in 'love' with you." She mimed quotations around that weighted word, oblivious to Hermione's sharp intake of breath, though Justin, like usual, didn't miss a beat.
He patted Hermione's shoulder as they paused in front of the Great Hall, smiling with ill-contained glee.
"Oh, it isn't a theory, sweet Susan. It's a fact. Half of the school has been talking about it for ages. Malfoy is obsessed with Hermione and flirts with her at every bloody opportunity." He tapped his chin, assessing her like she was a confusing puzzle. "Honestly, it's amazing you haven't put two and two together since you're supposedly the 'smartest' person in our year." He leaned towards Susan and whispered under his breath, "Though I'm still unconvinced that the last bit is true."
Susan argued with him on that point until a strangled sound escaped from Hermione's throat.
"Are you two mental? Malfoy isn't in love with me. He despises me! And I despise him!"
Justin shrugged and exchanged a knowing look with his girlfriend.
"Didn't your mother ever teach you that boys pick on you when they fancy you?"
"Oi!" Susan smacked his arm. "Is that why you've been teasing Cho Chang?"
The Hufflepuffs bickered the entire way to their table, leaving Hermione staring agape at their backs.
The last four hours of her life made zero sense and were impossible to comprehend. They were so outrageous, in fact, that she was a hair's breadth away from fainting. It was like someone had replaced all her blood with cement as a cruel experiment. Once pliable and life-giving, her lungs no longer functioned or expanded with her breath, trapped in her chest with paralysis. She stood in the middle of the walkway, blocking traffic in the busiest intersection in Hogwarts as perplexed students sidled around with fearful gazes, hesitant to disturb her as she trembled with shock.
Across the Hall, Ginny chewed her lip and watched the spectacle unfold from her seat, elbowing Harry in the ribs.
"Do you think she's finally lost her marbles from memorising all those arithmancy equations?"
Harry frowned and lifted a chip to his mouth, chewing slowly.
"No. Maths and Hermione go together like bangers and mash. She lives for calculating numbers."
"Charmed, then? Maybe it's a stasis spell?"
Harry swallowed and dunked another chip in his sauce.
"I don't think so… She has that 'panicky' look about her. Maybe she's having another anxiety attack and needs our help?"
Ginny rose to her knees on the bench and cupped her hands over her mouth.
"Hermione?!" she shouted. "Do you need an escort to the table?! Or a potion from Pomfrey!?" Ginny frowned and searched for her wand. "I don't think she heard me. Maybe I need a sonorous charm…."
Before she could cast it, Harry stilled her hands.
"No, it worked. See? She's coming this way."
By the time Hermione reached her friends, the short walk had zapped her energy. Her brain had gone into overdrive, reviewing every past encounter with Draco. She'd been in the grips of a panic attack before realising, with confidence, that Justin's theory was not only incorrect but laughably unfounded.
She couldn't recall a single moment where Draco was flirtatious, save for the few times she'd caught him staring. Since he'd acted more like a man being held at wand-point than a man besotted in those instances, she hadn't counted them.
How was it possible that such an egregious rumour had taken hold in Hogwarts to the extent that half of the school was talking about it? If Justin was to be believed, apparently Hermione had played the fool for years since she'd somehow missed this flagrant piece of information. Her ignorance was especially shocking since she ran in circles now with Lavender, one of the school's most prominent gossips.
Did Draco actually view her as a love interest?
Hermione almost slapped herself silly for breathing life into those words.
The only truth that had spilled from Justin's stupid mouth was that Draco often looked at her, but it was only because she was the subject of his ridicule and loathing—nothing more.
She plopped onto the bench and met Ginny's expectant face across the table.
"I just had the most unbelievable conversation with Justin Finch-Fletchley and Susan Bones, of all people."
Ginny leaned forward on her elbows, grimacing as Hermione packed a vegetarian lunch onto her plate. The younger girl bit off a chunk of her ham and cheese toastie, wrinkling her nose as Hermione doused her salad leaves with vinaigrette.
"You know, Dad says it doesn't count as a meal if you don't have any meat. I don't understand how you can eat so little yet still have such a buxom bum."
Ron, who'd been relatively silent up to this point save for his quiet hello, choked on his food while Harry shot off an exasperated "Really?" at Ginny.
Ginny shrugged and took another bite, muttering around a mouthful of chewed ham and bread. "It's the truth, and it's hardly fair. She eats like a bird yet looks like that." She waved her hand at Hermione's chest, hidden beneath a shapeless sweater.
The head girl arched her brow and stabbed her fork into a sizable chunk of romaine lettuce and tomato. "That's a slight to vegans and vegetarians everywhere, Ginny. And I'm not strict with my diet. I just try to reduce consuming meat where I can because it's better for the environment and for my arteries. Are you quite finished casting stones about my preferences?"
Ginny stuck out her tongue.
"Yeah, I s'pose. So, what did those gormless Hufflepuffs say to freeze you up like that?"
Hermione took another bite and chewed for longer than necessary. It was risky to speak of their conversation in front of Harry and Ron since the boys disliked Draco even more than she did (quidditch rivalry was as entrenched in their blood as magic). But waiting to talk wasn't a viable option since she wouldn't see Ginny again until supper, and she really needed to get this weight off her chest.
"They said that Malfoy is in love with me," Hermione murmured, though trying to be quiet was a useless endeavour. Harry and Ron had spent years reading her lips from across classrooms and were experts at it now.
Harry shoved a handful of chips inside his mouth, scowling like he'd tasted something foul, while Ron doubled over with laughter with such theatrics that it drew an audience all the way from the Head Table.
Ron's reaction shouldn't have offended her, but it did. Was the idea of someone fancying her really so detestable? Even if it was Draco?
Ginny clenched her jaw as if reading Hermione's thoughts, tossing her crust at her brother's head.
"Ronald Weasley, you absolute fool of a man! Shut up before I strike you with a silencing spell! This isn't funny!"
"Yes, Ronald," Hermione hissed. "Is the thought of someone loving me hilarious?"
Ron sniggered and brushed the breadcrumbs off his lap.
"It is when it's Malfoy. Merlin. Did someone pay Justin to say that?"
Harry groaned and rubbed his forehead like he had a sudden headache.
"Come on, everyone. Can we not have one meal without an argument? Let's all agree that it's a silly rumour and just move on."
Hermione jerked to her feet and glared at Ron. "Fine by me, but I've lost my appetite. I'll see you all this evening."
Ron was mid-bite and jabbered with a full mouth.
"Wait—hold on, 'Mione. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be an arse. Please, don't leave until you've eaten. I'll be quiet, I swear."
Hermione clenched her fists and closed her eyes, counting backwards in her head until the urge to throttle him ebbed. It never ceased to amaze her how quickly Ron's words could tunnel beneath her skin like a festering wound. The pair bickered like a married couple who'd seen the other side of one too many lacklustre anniversaries. It was the primary reason why they'd never attempted to date, even when his mother, Molly, had pushed for their union with her usual tenacity. They were akin to oil and water, two fundamentally different forces that didn't mix, no matter how well-shaken or stirred.
The nitpicking and bickering drove them both mad, though their childhood bond, forged through years of shared adventures, was strong enough to outlast any petty fight. Ron was loyal to a fault, brilliant when inspired, and often hilarious. Empathy may not have been his strong suit, nor did his brand of sarcasm always land as he expected, but Hermione admired the man he'd grown to be, all the same.
Though perhaps, sometimes, a bit of space was overdue.
"Thank you for apologising," she said, meeting his wide-rimmed eyes. "I wanted everyone's confirmation that Justin and Susan were liars, and I've received your opinions loud and clear. Now…." She backed away from the bench, holding up her palms as the boys protested. "I just need to rest for a bit, alright? I've had a terrible morning dealing with all this, and on top of that, I can feel a migraine coming on…."
Before anyone could say another word to her face, Hermione strode towards the exit without a backwards glance, leaving behind her three bewildered best friends to argue at the table.
"You're an absolute muppet," said Ginny, not bothering to clarify which boy she meant.
Her brother sulked as she continued to berate him with a barrage of colourful insults.
"Alright, alright. I get it. I'm a massive dunce. I'll apologise again, and everything will be fine, okay?"
"No, it's not okay, Ronald. Dating is a sensitive topic for Hermione. You can't tease her like that, no matter how ridiculous it is that the ferret fancies her."
Harry nodded in agreement and scrounged for another plate of chips.
"Yeah. She was already winded and looked ready to cry."
Ron sighed and shoved his last clump of casserole between his lips, turning in his seat to face the Slytherin table with hunched shoulders.
"What the… Do you see what I'm seeing?" he said, elbowing Harry's ribs. "Please tell me that I'm dreaming and that Malfoy isn't staring at Hermione's arse."
Harry followed Ron's gaze and glowered at the sight.
"Shit. This stupid rumour had better be false, or Malfoy is a dead man."