Hermione passed the brief message over to Blaise, whose eyes bounded
briefly over it. "What do we do?"
"Why are you asking me?" Hermione was wondering the same thing herself.
"You're Hermione Granger. If you don't know. . . ." Blaise shrugged.
"What are you talking about?"
"The cleverest witch in our year. Last year's Head Girl. Bane of Lucius Malfoy. Even the Sly-the people who 'don't' like you call you 'The Mudblood Who Won't Quit.'"
"What did they call me before?" Hermione wanted to know.
"'Potter's chit.'" Blaise blushed.
Hermione giggled nervously. "Not 'Draco's chit'?"
"Not in Slytherin House. We know Draco Malfoy. Or thought we did. He changed, Hermione. Inside, if not outwardly. You didn't see him before, not really."
"No, I suppose I didn't. But now I think I do, a little. Unfortunately, he's not here, is he?" Hermione stood and grabbed her book bag. "Good night, Blaise." She received an answering 'Good night' and a sad smile, and Blaise got out of her way.
Trudging up to the sixth floor, Hermione noticed a slit of light under only one of the office doors. The hastily magicked plaque read 'G. Weasley, Charms'. Hermione knocked. Silence. She knocked again, louder, and then pushed the door open, George owed her, after all, for five years of pranks before she learned to prank back.
'G. Weasley' sat at his desk, feet up on the corner. He was holding a half- empty bottle up to the light, studying it. The label read: Ogden's Old Firewhiskey.
"George!" Hermione closed the door behind her, shocked.
"Hermione," he enunciated, "you shouldn't be here."
"Neither should you. George Weasley, what would your mother say?" Pictures of an angry Mrs. Weasley ran through both their heads.
"I don't know, we haven't spoken in a year." He sighed. "'Mione, go to bed, you have classes tomorrow."
"'You' have classes tomorrow. And I could teach every one of them right now and do a better job than you could."
"I'm sure you could," George placated.
Hermione wasn't finished. "Because you know what you did during Charms? You planned pranks, you and Fred and Lee bloody Jordan." She didn't want to think about what had happened to Fred or Lee. "While I took notes and worried about tests that never came."
"But Fred and Lee aren't here now, are they, 'Mione?"
"No, they're not. But you are, and do you think they'd want you to sit around drinking yourself into a stupor? You have classes tomorrow!" Hermione nearly shouted.
George leaned his chair back against the wall. "Why don't you teach them, if you're so good at it?"
Hermione, nearly in tears again, glared at him. "Because it's 'your job'."
"And what's your job, 'Mione?" George discovered that someone had transfigured his bottle into a Charms textbook.
Hermione tucked her wand away. "Making sure Professor Dumbledore knows the school will be invaded by Death Eaters from Durmstrang fairly soon." And on that cheery note, Hermione walked out, leaving George stunned.
But he didn't transfigure the book back.
"Why are you asking me?" Hermione was wondering the same thing herself.
"You're Hermione Granger. If you don't know. . . ." Blaise shrugged.
"What are you talking about?"
"The cleverest witch in our year. Last year's Head Girl. Bane of Lucius Malfoy. Even the Sly-the people who 'don't' like you call you 'The Mudblood Who Won't Quit.'"
"What did they call me before?" Hermione wanted to know.
"'Potter's chit.'" Blaise blushed.
Hermione giggled nervously. "Not 'Draco's chit'?"
"Not in Slytherin House. We know Draco Malfoy. Or thought we did. He changed, Hermione. Inside, if not outwardly. You didn't see him before, not really."
"No, I suppose I didn't. But now I think I do, a little. Unfortunately, he's not here, is he?" Hermione stood and grabbed her book bag. "Good night, Blaise." She received an answering 'Good night' and a sad smile, and Blaise got out of her way.
Trudging up to the sixth floor, Hermione noticed a slit of light under only one of the office doors. The hastily magicked plaque read 'G. Weasley, Charms'. Hermione knocked. Silence. She knocked again, louder, and then pushed the door open, George owed her, after all, for five years of pranks before she learned to prank back.
'G. Weasley' sat at his desk, feet up on the corner. He was holding a half- empty bottle up to the light, studying it. The label read: Ogden's Old Firewhiskey.
"George!" Hermione closed the door behind her, shocked.
"Hermione," he enunciated, "you shouldn't be here."
"Neither should you. George Weasley, what would your mother say?" Pictures of an angry Mrs. Weasley ran through both their heads.
"I don't know, we haven't spoken in a year." He sighed. "'Mione, go to bed, you have classes tomorrow."
"'You' have classes tomorrow. And I could teach every one of them right now and do a better job than you could."
"I'm sure you could," George placated.
Hermione wasn't finished. "Because you know what you did during Charms? You planned pranks, you and Fred and Lee bloody Jordan." She didn't want to think about what had happened to Fred or Lee. "While I took notes and worried about tests that never came."
"But Fred and Lee aren't here now, are they, 'Mione?"
"No, they're not. But you are, and do you think they'd want you to sit around drinking yourself into a stupor? You have classes tomorrow!" Hermione nearly shouted.
George leaned his chair back against the wall. "Why don't you teach them, if you're so good at it?"
Hermione, nearly in tears again, glared at him. "Because it's 'your job'."
"And what's your job, 'Mione?" George discovered that someone had transfigured his bottle into a Charms textbook.
Hermione tucked her wand away. "Making sure Professor Dumbledore knows the school will be invaded by Death Eaters from Durmstrang fairly soon." And on that cheery note, Hermione walked out, leaving George stunned.
But he didn't transfigure the book back.