a/n: decided to do this quick at the start of the chap. The beloved kriCket (thanks for the review! Always push that curfew to the max ... and lucky you about your brother, wish mine was like that!) has brought up an interesting question: what is Malfoy's mission?

Unfortunately, it is not to get close to Granger – er, Hermione. No, that would be too simple and painless a fanfic. And I intend to make this as painful as possible. (Chuckle chuckle.)

Now, what is the mission, you might ask? Well, I won't tell you. You'll just have to read to find out. Again I chuckle malevolently! Oh, always with the chuckling.

Ahem. Now, since I seem to have passed my bout of amused fits, enjoy the chapter! (And never forget to review!)

Disclaimer: Are you kidding me?

OoOoO

Chapter Four

I woke up to the most horrible noise I had ever heard outside of the Forbidden Forest.

What was that? I looked around for the offender –

Mrs. Weasley sat snoring in the chair next to my bedside table. God, that woman! I swear she must be shaking the bloody dungeons with that howl of hers!

It was about six o'clock in the morning, judging by the pale light streaming in through my only window. Despite my objections, Mrs. Weasley had stayed in my room overnight. My parents couldn't have stayed, even if they needed to. Due to old security measures, when the Ministry building detects a Muggle inside its walls, the security wards go off and knock the Muggle unconscious until morning. And, even with as much as they knew about the wizarding world, my parents were still just that:

Muggles.

It's not a secret or anything, only a difficult fact to admit. Yes, it is fabulous to know about electronics and the internet and ball-point pens. Yes, it is nice not to have grown up with such pure bigotry about bloodlines ingrained into me. Yes, it is lovely that I can actually function on holidays without the use of a wand.

But the feeling of being a second-class citizen is complete bullocks.

Most muggles or muggle-borns have trouble with figuring the exact connotations of "mudblood." It isn't, afterall, as if we had heard it since birth like any other curse word. Imagine it like this:

"Mudblood," in laymen's terms, means, "Filthy thing that crawled out of a sewer who deserves nothing in life simply because her parents didn't have an ounce of magic in them, and for that she must be considered unfit to lick a pureblood's shoe or even touch the ground that his three-legged dog walked on because that bitch is worth more than she'll ever be, no matter how smart or good of a person she is."

That's it, in a nutshell.

I yawned and tilted my head to look at Mrs. Weasley more carefully. Never, in a hundred years, would I have considered her to be fierce enough to raise seven great kids and be the head provider for the Order of the Phoenix from the peaceful look that appeared on her face.

Until she let out another snore, that is. One silencing charm! I begged silently. That's all I ask!

She had become like a surrogate mother to me, though. Mum, my real mum, is a wonderful teacher. She gave me the thirst for knowledge that most people know me for, and she gets me everything that I need. It was under Mrs. Weasley's watchful eye , however, that I felt . . . well, cared for.

I decided then to apologize to Mrs. Weasley, along with my parents, for this whole incident and for the incessant partying.

I grinned and laid back into my pillow. Just because I would apologize, though, didn't mean that I would stop.

Mrs. Weasly seemed to snort and coughed a few times, apparently stirred. I retreated back under the covers so as to not expose my backside in the huge gap of the hospital robe. Mrs. Weasley looked around for a moment and then fixed me with a pitying expression.

"Hermione, dear, I do hope that you get yourhead cleared out," she said matter-of-factly. "I woke up around four and you were snoring nearly fit to burst!"

With that, she lapsed into a small laugh and shook her head. I stifled a snort.

"I'll do that. I'm so sorry, Mrs. Weasley," I said.

"Oh, it's not a problem, Hermione," she said, holding up a hand. "I'm only worried about you not getting enough sleep, so I simply stayed quiet."

I bit back a smile and changed the subject. "So is this my last day here?" I asked.

"I don't know for certain, but I suspect that it is," she answered. "I'll go fetch an attendant for some sausage and eggs. You sit here and read your Daily Prophet. Oh, another owl! Lovely, you can read your mail!" The woman then stood and bustled out of the room.

I turned around and sure enough, there was a very handsome brown and grey owl sitting by the half-opened window. Ooh, maybe it's my Hogwarts letter, I thought eagerly, already looking forwards to reading this year's textbooks.

"Come here, little fellow," I reached out towards the owl, who eyed me haughtily.

"Hoot," it said, leaning forwards and dropping the letter into my hand. Surprisingly, though, the owl didn't fly away immediately. I thought that it was going to bite me before I realized that the letter must need an answer. I sat for a moment. Whose owl was this? Merlin, why wizards never invented something like caller- ID. Owl-ID? I mused.

"Hoot!" the owl said impatiently. I glared at it and tore open the letter.

A simple card fell out into my lap. The picture on the front was delicate, a phoenix with wings beating in time to a very slow, calming melody. I couldn't for the life of me place it, though. I opened up the card.

"Get well soon!" it squealed. I dropped the card in surprise. Laughing at my own nerves, I picked it up again.

"Get well soon!" the card repeated. I thanked the universe for making sure that this didn't get to me when I had my splitting-headache-hangover the day before. Looking more closely, the thin lines that had formed the shape of a phoenix were small bandages that slithered onto the inside, forming a very nice script.

Wishing you the very best for a speedy recovery!

A Secret Admirer

I yelped and dropped the card again.

A secret admirer? Me?

What?

Wondering what exactly the sender was smoking and how I could get a hold of some, I picked up the card and ignored its loud squeak. Damn eccentric wizards. Or witches?

No, the sender was definitely male. The script inside the card was definitely handwriting, and it was way too choppy to be a girl's.

A curiosity began to grip me. Who was this bloke?

Probably just my Dad, I decided, and laid the card onto my bedside table. Sighing, I picked up my Numerology book, intent on memorizing the chapter entitled Personal Numbers: Your Name and Character.

Okay. I was going to quiz myself. Someone whose birth digits add up to one is the leader, the initiator. A two is all about facts, but out of touch with other people. A three is . . . damn. I forgot. I opened up the book again, humming to myself.

"Hmmm, mmmm, huh-huh-hmmmaaaaaaah . . ." A three is filled with a 'child-like innocence and curiosity.' "La, la-haummmm . . ." That's a pretty tune, I observed offhand. I wonder what it is?

I stopped and listened for a moment, realizing that the noise was indeed coming from another place in the room. My gaze stopped on the card. The same faint melody that I had been humming along with seemed to play softly from the phoenix itself.

Strange, I thought. Abandoning my book, I picked up the card again. Who sent this? I asked silently.

Suddenly, another noise perked my ears. At first it seemed as if the charm on the card was wearing off, but then the high, steady wail became louder. Was – is that screaming?

Another noise commanded my attention, then the same wail in reply.

A nurse burst through the door of my room with such force that the small window shattered.

"AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH! GET AWAY FROM ME! LISTEN! I'VE GOT YOUR BLOODY EGGS! LEAVE ME ALONE!" the young woman yelled. Her brown eyes were wild, and her dirty blond hair looked as if it were making a prison break from her hairnet.

Mrs. Weasley stepped into the room behind her, in much the same condition, but with considerably more composure. "ONE thing I ask is that this girl gets a decent breakfast. You expect porridge to help her get any stronger? Certainly not!"

I didn't want to point out that porridge is what I ate every morning, anyway.

"I ONLY DO WHAT HER CONDITION REQUIRES!" the nurse yelled back as I tried to stifle my laughter.

"Eggs are required for this condition!" Mrs. Weasley proclaimed indignantly.

"PAH!" I laughed. Mrs. Weasley paid no mind.

"Essential proteins, even I know that!" Mrs. Weasley continued.

"She can get those from potions," the nurse replied tiredly. Oh, dear, she looked on the brink of tears over some eggs. I laughed again, trying not to cry as well.

"Nothing provides the same –,"

"FINE! FINE!" the nurse yelled, tucking in strands of her flyaway hair. "You can fix your own bloody eggs! I'm transferring this patient!" I laughed again, one thought suddenly in my mind:

Department Transfer Form

Name: Hermione Jane Granger

Room Number: Six

Reason for Transfer: Eggs

I chuckled and laid back into my pillows again.

Mrs. Weasley sighed. "Well, she wasn't much help!"

I snorted.

The red-haired woman straightened her blouse and wiped her forehead, apparently having put some physical effort forth in the ten minutes she had been gone. She then cocked an eyebrow at me, the corners of her mouth twitching.

"The things I do for you children," she tisked. "You'd think that nurse had no common sense."

I smiled at her and took the hand she offered me. Of course, I didn't get away with just that. Oh no. Mrs. Weasley pulled me into a paralyzing hug for a full two minutes before pulling back.

"Thank you," I said simply.

Mrs. Weasley gave me a look. "Well, I couldn't just leave you alone overnight! Imagine what could have happened then! I just don't know what to do with you, Hermione." She shook her head.

"What do you mean?" I asked curiously.

"Don't you dare think that I don't know what went on at that Muggle's house," she said sternly. "What ever made you go to an escapade like that?"

"I–,"

"Liquor? And drugs, Hermione? AND on top of that, you used an unapproved spell underage on a Muggle! When I heard from Albus that you had been taken into the Ministry because of possible Dark Arts–!"

"But, Mrs. Weasley, I–,"

"DON'T you DARE interrupt me! I was worried sick, Hermione! This was a completely selfish, inconsiderate thing to do! If I find out that you have injured yourself doing something so careless ever again, I will drag you from the Ministry, straight home, and make sure that you are grounded until your hundred and twenty-first birthday!"

"But, Mrs. Weasley–,"

"What is it, dear?"

I did a double take and gaped at her. She looked as composed as if she was on her way to a job interview. But that fury was still in her eyes.

"Wha –? Er, um . . . I'm sorry? I'm very sorry for what I did Mrs. Weasley . . ."

Her brown eyes narrowed.

"AND – erm, I don't know exactly what happened, but, I'm so sorry that anyone else had to get involved in this. I know that it was inconsiderate, but I was just as scared as anybody, I swear to you," I said, trying to remember. A few scenes, memories of that night, flashed through my mind, leaving me shaky and feeling pitiful.

"I can't apologize for being with my friends and being a witch, but I never would have gone that night if I had known what would happened," I added honestly.

I put my face in my hands. "I still am scared," I said softly. "I shot light from my fingers! I'm a . . . I'm a freak." I looked back up at Mrs. Weasley.

Her eyes were distinctly shining with tears. "Hermione, dear . . ." she sat on the edge of my bed and lifted the card and book from my lap tenderly, placing them on my bedside table. She sniffed, turned back to me, and pulled me into another hug.

"It happens to the best of us, dear," she said softly.

I snorted again. Yes, of course every sixteen-year-old witch shoots guilt from her fingertips at random intervals, I thought bitterly. But I clung to her tighter. The laugh turned into tremors, too strong to be kept inside but to weak to be sobs. I would never just lose control enough to cry; I'm not exactly a crying, sniveling sort of girl.

"If you ever need help with anything, Hermione," Mrs. Weasley said at last, "never hesitate to ask." She sniffed and leaned back, the space under her arm giving me a clear view of the bedside table and the fascinating card that lay on it. My eyes opened slightly wider.

"Actually, Mrs. Weasley," I said slowly, "I do need your help on one thing . . ."

OoOoO

a/n: yes, I'm doing two notes. I'm the author. So what?

I was just noting that the longest chapter so far (ie. THIS ONE) has the absolute LEAST to do with the overall story. Probably. But you never know what could happen . . . heh heh. I do, though.

Anyways, thanks to my reviewers, both loyal and . . . well, loyal's the only bit I've got at this point. So that means that ALL my reviewers are loyal, and therefore, deserve thanks. In cake form. Hope you like chocolate! And NEVER forget to review or I'll set Mrs. Weasley on you faster than you can say butterbeer.

Love and buttercream-iced chocolate cake for everyone,

Cameo