A/N- A note for Americans and other aliens (to borrow a phrase from Pterry):
When I write football, much like the rest of the world, I mean "soccer". And yes, I am American. I just think the British are far more sensible about things; like fun swear words and the ability to play cricket. Also, they have a queen, and it's far more fun to hear about the exploits of the royal family than it is to hear about our esteemed Dubya choking on a pretzel. (I mean, come on people? Did we really elect a guy who almost choked to death on a pretzel? Please tell me I'm dreaming... Auntie Em, Auntie Em, there's no place like home! #runs away screaming#)
Okay, here ends my political rant. I had to do at least one! Ahem. Sorry.
Anyway... Just remember that FOOTBALL SOCCER and we're off!
#I can't believe I wrote this whole note about one word... that appears in a section that has no real bearing on this fic whatsoever, except to add color... I think I'm insane... No, wait, this chapter is insane. Do you SEE how long this thing is? AAAAGH!# XP
Also, sorry about the long interval between updates. My economics project went and reared its ugly head, followed by a french project and a theology project. #shakes fist at school# Only a few more weeks until I'm FREE! And then I get to go one vacation!
Only, get this-- I will have been in the UK... 2 days BEFORE HBP comes out! Is that just cruelty or what? And then, I'm going to be in France, so I might not get to read it for as long as a WEEK after it comes out! I've read EVERY book (from 2 on, anyway) IMMEDIATELY after it was released! I'm not even going to be able to enjoy Paris, I just know it... sniffle
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Chapter XXII-- Proficiency (Part I)
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Harry was up and showering far too early, having found that he couldn't get back to sleep. Too many things were running through his head, foremost among them- How had Draco gotten into Gryffindor Tower without the Fat Lady noticing? He believed that Draco didn't know. If Draco had found a way into Gryffindor Tower, he'd have used it long before. And probably not to come crawl into bed with Harry. That was another thing- How had he not woken up? Draco had managed to climb in and, apparently, get quite comfy, all without him waking. It was so odd. That and the dream he had had. All the dreams he had had, apparently.
He shook his head under the hot spray of the water, hoping that the pounding of the streams on his skull might knock some idea into his mind. How could he not have remembered such odd dreams before now? He had long been cursed with the ability to recall most of his dreams; a curse especially in the previous year, when his connection to Voldemort had grown stronger than it had ever been. There was another question, that had been lurking just out of sight since Draco's arrival. He had not seen a single vision of Voldemort in over a month. Not, in fact, since the blond's arrival. Why hadn't he noticed?
With a long and very eloquent sigh, Harry banged his head against the tile of the shower. It was useless. He wasn't coming up with any answers, just more questions. Most of which centered on Draco. He knew, without a doubt, that if he told Ron, Ron would immediately seek out and attempt to kill Draco. Not a Good Plan, and Harry needed a Good Plan right about then. Maybe Hermione, but he wasn't entirely sure that he wanted to inform Hermione that Draco Malfoy had shown up in his bed, and he hadn't screamed, yelled, or hexed him. In fact, he had been rather close to tugging him back down and going back to sleep, though rationally he knew that if Draco were caught in the Tower, both of them would be in a lot of trouble. Harry stuck his head under the spray and quietly wished for a simple solution to all his problems, preferably neatly packaged and with a bow. A red bow. Harry was quite partial to red.
This was Seamus's cue to stumble noisily into the boys' bathroom, groggy and semi-incoherent. Harry really and truly hoped that this was not the answer he had been seeking. If it was, he wasn't entirely sure what the question was anymore.
"Oi, Harry? Is 'at you? Whatchoo up so early for? 'S not even six-thirty yet!" Six-thirty, of course, was the time at which Dean's exceedingly annoying battery-powered football alarm clock (well, after five solid years of it, anything was annoying) woke everyone up each morning. Everyone aside from Dean and Ron, anyway. It was generally Seamus's job to smack Dean's alarm clock into silence, then wake Dean up. Harry, in turn, woke Ron. Sometimes. When he felt like it.
"Yeah. I must be really excited to get to breakfast or something." Harry drawled rather impressively, with that air of someone who can't believe they're up when they are, but has just been questioned about it and has to deliver an excuse. Seamus grunted, and Harry took that as an acceptance of what he'd said. He let the water run over him for another minute, then turned it off, grabbed his towel and went to get dressed. He had some serious thinking to do, and the sooner he got started the better.
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While Harry knew that he hadn't beaten the house elves in terms of 'being awake far too early for one's health', as evidenced by the pumpkin juice and ham-and-cheese croissant which appeared on the table just after he sat down, he had managed to beat the entire student body, and the professors. He took a few bites of the breakfast and looked up at the ceiling of the Great Hall. Despite a few fluffy clouds, the sun was already shining brightly. It was going to be another nice day, warm but not hot, just like the previous day had been. Soon, though, those fluffy clouds would get darker and thicker, and winter would move in. Harry suddenly found that rather depressing, and decided to make a point of getting out of the castle at some point that day, maybe going down to the pitch to practice for a while on his Firebolt. It was just too nice a day to pass up. Of course, there was that pesky problem of going to class, but really, who could blame him for wanting to skip when the weather was that good?
'Draco, that's who.' His brain readily supplied. Not that the blond would be alone. He could imagine the two-pronged attack he would face if Draco and Hermione teamed up, armed with his academic record. He shuddered, and he felt certain that the pumpkin juice was shuddering as well. Smart pumpkin juice. They had Potions class later on that day, and with all the effort Draco had put in to making sure he took the class, he would certainly not take it well if Harry were to not show up. He sighed, seeking sympathy from the obviously more-intelligent-than-usual pumpkin juice. Such a beautiful day, ruined by the looming presence of Snape lurking in his afternoon. So depressing were these thoughts, and so good a mind reader was the pumpkin juice, that Harry barely noticed when the Great Hall began filling with students.
A few of the new First Years, looking exceedingly nervous about their first day of classes, were sneaking glances in his direction. He could predict the conversation:
"Is that really...?" Hushed whispers, a few giggles.
"Does he really have the scar?"
"Who cares about that? Do you think it's really... you know, really true? What he said about You-Know-Who?" The whispers quieting as they ponder this, then beginning to rise in volume as the conversation invariably turns away from him to other subjects.
So utterly predictable. And for some reason, Harry found himself hating those First Years. As soon as he realized it, he stopped.
'What's that about?' He asked himself, somewhat stunned at the turns his mind had been taking of late. It had always irked him, though, that people seemed to notice the scar before they noticed him. They saw The Boy-Who-Lived, and seemed to completely miss Harry Potter in the process.
Taking the last remaining swig of his pumpkin-y confidante before the goblet refilled itself, Harry found himself looking over at the Slytherin table. It was habit, a morning ritual that had been established years ago. Rule #1: Know Where Thy Enemy Is. This morning, however, his 'enemy' was still absent. Harry was a bit surprised by that. Surely Draco would have been able to get ready by... well, now, anyway.
Eventually, the rest of the Gryffindors made their way down, arraying themselves as usual in lines down the benches of the table and tucking in to the now much larger breakfast presented to them. Draco had still not arrived. Nor had many of the older Slytherins, which seemed to have the First Years looking more nervous than ever. It was clear that they knew what standing Slytherin House had at Hogwarts, and that despite their natural tendency toward pride, they weren't sure if they really wanted to be there.
When the older Slytherins did arrive it was en masse, and quite an impressive entrance, really. Harry almost grinned at the look of pure superiority Draco was wearing as he led his 'underlings' into the Hall. The blond, who had been acting rather strangely since his appearance on Harry's doorstep, seemed to be getting back into his normal routine as the Prince of Slytherin, and was making sure everyone knew it. Apparently, the First Years hadn't gotten the memo, and looked rather embarassed. Sparing a quick glance at the Head Table, Harry noted Snape's approving look and Dumbledore's slightly raised eyebrow (along with the usual enigmatic smile, which could mean anything from approval to 'I do believe the meat has gone bad', and therefore told Harry nothing at all).
In his own way, Harry was also pleased. With Draco running the show, the depleted Slytherin House would probably be just fine. Much as he would have been loathe to admit it before, he now found himself taking just a little bit of pride in Draco's inborn talent as a leader. When Draco glanced over at him and quirked his lips up just slightly at the corners, a smile meant for him and him alone, he could do no less than smile back. It was ironic, Harry suddenly realized, that the arrival of the Slytherins had just brightened his day. And hopefully, it was also a sign of good things to come.
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The Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher hadn't made an appearance at breakfast, sparking rumors throughout the student body that there would be no DADA class that day, or possibly for the whole year. Of course, as with most rumors, these were false. If the teacher hadn't arrived, Harry knew that one of the others would have stepped in. Even Professor Trelawney could probably handle the first class of the year- run through the syllabus, make sure everyone has the required materials, assign some reading or something. Standard "first day of class" fare. Alas, it was not to be. Trelawney remained in her tower, and the new DADA professor was seated at the head desk when the class began to filter through the door, a few minutes early to avoid being late the first day.
Harry's jaw just about broke as it hit the floor. As quickly as he could, he buried the reaction, but it was long enough that Hermione noticed, at least. Another thing to add to the list of 'strange Harry behavior', the building of which was becoming something of a passtime. Harry didn't notice Hermione noticing. He was much too busy evaluating what he was seeing in terms of reality as he knew it. At least he now had the answer to "Before what?". The answer was apparently, "Before I start teaching your class".
Sitting at the desk was none other than the woman he recalled from his dream the previous night; who, he reasoned based on that conversation, was apparently all of the women who'd been appearing in his dreams for the past months. She was now quite real, and was scribbling something down on a sheet of parchment as the students took their seats nervously.
Harry, being himself when it came to DADA, sat in the front, the left side of the room from the door. Hermione took the seat next to him, and on the other side of her, nearest the wall, Ron took his place. Harry kept a grin to himself as Draco, with perfect nonchalance and a smirk that begged anyone to argue with him, took the seat directly across the aisle from Harry. Following the same pattern, almost as if it had been pre-ordained, Pansy and Blaise took their seats, filling up the middle section of the room. On the far side, Harry saw Ernie MacMillan and Justin Finch-Fletchley grab seats, joined a moment later by Terry Boot. He glanced around the room, noting the faces that appeared. It seemed as though most of the year had opted to continue DADA lessons, and for that Harry was grateful.
He was less grateful, however, for the fact that the new professor apparently had a habit of stepping into his head every once in a while. Still, so far she had been non-threatening in his dream worlds, if a bit evasive and enigmatic. And, considering the previous year, Harry was glad that they had a teacher who seemed sane. At the very least, he could avoid making snap judgments. A snap judgment, after all, was what had gotten Sirius...- Harry swallowed hard as he thought the word- killed, and he vowed not to make the same mistake twice. For all he knew, this professor bore only an uncanny resemblance to the character his mind had created. Still, something deep and primordial in the pit of his stomach told Harry this was not the case.
At precisely nine o'clock the new professor stopped writing, set her quill down, and stood to address the class. She was... well, sort of short, really, Harry noted. Not nearly as short as Professor Flitwick, but that would be hard to match. However, there was something about her, the way she carried herself, that made her seem taller, and despite her lack of height, there were no snide remarks or snickers. She had the attention of the whole class from the time she set down her quill, so there was no quieting that needed to be done as she began the class.
"Welcome to your Sixth Year. I am correct that this is your first class of the year, yes?" The class nodded affirmatively, a few voices chimed in with a "Yes, professor", Hermione's one of them. Harry smiled at Ron's defeated sigh. The room was soon silent and attentive again.
"Well then, let's begin properly. I am called Prudence Kedemon, and I will be teaching this class until at least the end of the year. After that, who knows? I have heard a rumor that there is a 'curse' on my particular position," a few quiet laughs at this, "But I assure you that such a thing will not deter me. I have been made aware that most of the students who learned anything in this field last year were self-taught." Her eyes scanned the room, lighting on Harry for a moment with an indistinguishable emotion, then scanning again. "So, we will begin this year with a series of proficiency tests."
The class collectively groaned at this announcement. Their nice, relaxed first day back was quickly becoming not-so-relaxing. The new professor, 'Kedemon.' Harry reminded himself, glad he at least had a name to attach to this figure, smiled reassuringly at the class and jumped up slightly to perch on her desk, her feet swinging several inches off the ground. The class took a collective blink, their attention successfully rerouted back to her.
"Yes, yes, I know you hate tests. As it is, I hate tests as well. Grading them is a nuisance. However, the school does require me to evaluate your acquisition of knowledge somehow, and tests are the most efficient method. I could simply drop you off in Romania or some such place and see how you fare, but I doubt many of your parents would be pleased with me. As it is, we will have as few tests as I can get away with. Now then. These proficiency tests will not be graded, so you can stop sweating, Ms. Granger." Hermione blinked and Ron (along with about half the class) barely managed to swallow his laughter. Harry grinned, and across the aisle Draco smirked.
"I simply want to ascertain where I should be beginning this class. Yes, there will be a written portion, unfortunately, though the practical portion is rather more important in my opinion. However, I doubt the school would appreciate me bringing in a wolf and a werewolf just to see if you can tell the difference, or anything of that sort. At least not on the first day. So, written it is. You may have the rest of this hour to look over any materials you wish to.
"I expect you to be reasonably proficient in Defense Against the Dark Arts materials that were presented to you in your Fourth Year and before, and I will be including important material from your Fifth Year book. Once I have a grasp on the average level of this class, we can proceed. If you wish, you may inform the students in the other class as well. I give you my permission, knowing of course that it will make no difference. The written portion of the proficiency tests begins in one hour." With that, the rather diminutive professor hopped down from her desk and went back to scribbling, apparently oblivious to her students. For a stunned moment, the class was silent, then the conversations began.
"Other class? What other class?" Ron's first question earned him a look of disdain from Hermione, the ever-informed.
"Every student in the year signed up for this class. Do you honestly think we would have fit in just one classroom? They divided us into two sections. This class is section A, the other is section B. That's why we have two double classes a week instead of four single classes. We have class Mondays and Fridays, the other section has Tuesdays and Thursdays."
"What's on Wednesday?" Ron asked, apparently hearing this for the first time. Harry really couldn't stop himself.
"I thought What was on third. Or was that second?" He pondered, and Hermione shot him a reproachful glare.
"Very funny Harry. Really!" The second was directed at Ron, "Don't you ever look at the message board? There is one, you know. You only pass it on the way to the Great Hall every morning! The professors keep office hours, Wednesdays during this time are Professor Kedemon's." With that, Hermione flipped open her perfectly organized and labeled notes, apparently from the last five years, and began skimming. Harry shrugged at Ron, who was looking rather confused, and began reading over Hermione's shoulder.
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Not five feet away, Draco was pondering. He had been hit with an odd sense of deja-vu the moment he stepped into the room and saw the new professor. On a purely visceral level, he thought he knew her somehow. Had seen her before, met her before. Possibly even been acquainted with her at some point. The problem was, he couldn't for the life of him imagine where or how. He resolved to think about it later, elsewhere. The mere presence of the woman was disconcerting to him, though he couldn't quite get a fix on why. The worst part was the way she kept... well, changing on him.
He vaguely wondered it she was a metamorphmagus, on a similar line with his own cousin, one Nymphadora Tonks, but pushed the idea away. He had seen 'Tonks', as she preferred to be called (Draco personally couldn't see what was wrong with her name, but had been most thoroughly assured by Ginny and Hermione, while at Grimmauld, that it was positively dreadful, and he should respect her wishes anyway. It had been far easier to give in than to argue), and though she had her morphs down to a level of ease that required minimal effort, it still required some. This... person, woman, professor, whatever she was that was sitting behind the desk scribbling away, had not been changing, not like that. Rather, she seemed to almost... flicker. Like she was made up of thin layers, layers that were shifted around as if by a breeze, revealing what was underneath for a scant few seconds before covering it up again. It was rather distracting. She was at once old and young, tall and short, overweight and skeleton-thin.
After a few minutes, Draco's eyes began to hurt. Resolutely, he turned to his notes (only slightly less organized than Hermione's- he didn't have a color-coded system to distinguish practical from theoretical information), and decided to think about it later. He was well aware of the information the members of the DA had covered the previous year, having been brought up to speed over the weeks at Grimmauld Place. What few of the spells he didn't know (which was VERY few, he remembered with a self-satisfied smirk), he'd learned. In many other areas he knew he was ahead of most of the class, and had been for some time. He would have no problem "passing" this proficiency examination. He doubted any of his House would. Despite their instruction (or rather, lack thereof) the previous year, the Slytherins' own drives to surpass those around them had had them doing their own independent studies of the Fifth Year material. They would be fine, and certainly wouldn't let the House down. Wouldn't let him down.
He shot a glance down his short row, where Pansy was absentmindedly chewing on a lock of her hair as she read through some of her notes; concentrating, he saw, on her weaker areas. Blaise, on the other aisle, was sorting out several sheaves of battered parchment that he had termed his "notes" some time ago. Draco couldn't see what was particularly note-like about them, being mostly nasty caricatures of students and professors, self-played games of tic-tac-toe, and other nonsense. Every once in a while, a word was scrawled and hastily defined, or a spell was noted down. Draco rolled his eyes back down to his work. How Blaise managed to pass any of his classes was a mystery that would probably never be solved. Still, he managed, and with remarkably good grades for someone who never seemed to do any actual work.
Draco's face went rather serious as he skimmed over his notes, not really taking in any of the information. It had become apparent, the night before and earlier in the morning, that he had become the de-facto ruler of Slytherin House. With the Seventh Year gone, seniority fell to the remaining Sixth Years, and in the Sixth Year, Draco was king. Very suddenly, the weight of the world really did seem to rest on his shoulders. The First Years, who usually entered Slytherin House just as cocky and arrogant as he had, seemed subdued, even scared. Draco understood, of course. To be Sorted into Slytherin while rumors of the Dark Lord's rise and return were looming in the air was "bad". It fell to him to keep the House in line, to make sure they did nothing that would bring suspicion upon them, to ward off that stigma. To ensure, in other words, that there would be a place for them to come back to for the next school year. And the next, and the next one after that. With the political tide as anti-Slytherin as it was normally, the proverbial straw could be quicker in coming than any of them could imagine.
Draco knew all this, and for a moment, he really, really wished that it could be handed off to someone else. But someone else probably wouldn't know what to do if a clue hit them over the head with a mallet, and so the job fell to him. He understood what the damn hat had meant, the year before, even if no one else did. If there was any "uniting" to be done, it was to be done between Slytherin and the rest of the school. He had just had no idea how to go about it, and had probably wound up making things even worse for himself and his House. Suddenly angry at himself, Draco began to really look over his notes, willing himself to be buried in the words contained there and resolving to worry about the rest of the world some other time.
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Some two hours later, the class let out, and let out a collective sigh of relief. In Hermione's words, "That wasn't really very hard at all!" And this time, most of the students actually agreed with her. The questions had been fairly straightforward, and it was apparent that the purpose really was to guage how much they had already been taught. Even Neville seemed pleased with how he felt he had done, something almost unheard of. Overall, the opinion of their new professor seemed favorable, though she hadn't done any real teaching yet; something about her personality and mannerisms seemed to click well with the class. The year was starting off... better than expected.
Harry was musing, about both the class and the professor -literally- from his dreams, allowing himself to be carried along with the tide of students heading toward the call of lunch, when he felt someone knock into him. A quick look confirmed the 'someone' as Draco, who winked at Harry before disappearing into the throng. Well, not really. Harry could still pinpoint Draco's hair with perfect accuracy, but the rest of him was lost. A bit puzzled, Harry took his seat at the Gryffindor table, immediately spooning a portion of the tuna salad onto his plate. The only other choice for the meal appeared to be chicken marsala, and much as the House Elves seemed to be trying, they never could get it quite right. The tuna would go quickly, and it was best to get some while there was some to get. For a moment, Harry wondered what happened to all the uneaten chicken marsala every time they had it, then decided that he really didn't want to know.
Hermione was still going on about the proficiency test- wondering what the practical section might entail- and every once in a while enthusing about the addition of another female professor. Harry took the opportunity to tune her out and steal a glance toward the Slytherin table, where Draco was again holding court. At this point, he had moved his cadre of loyal followers to about the center of the table, and the other years seemed to radiate out toward the ends. It was tactical, Harry realized. In the center, Draco had more control over what went on, more awareness of each member of his House. He was, in essence, being a Slytherin, and taking advantage of every opportunity that presented itself. The other Slytherins must have realized it- how could they not?- but none seemed anxious to do anything about it. Draco in control was just that- in control. And it suited him. Very suddenly, Draco's eyes shifted to meet his, seeming altogether unsurprised to catch Harry staring. Almost in slow motion, at least to Harry, Draco's tongue darted out to moisten his top lip, and Harry found himself blushing for no discernable reason.
He quickly looked away, busying himself with his bookbag. Originally, once he stopped blushing anyway, he planned to skim over the first chapter of his new potions book, in the hope that he might actually be able to answer one of the nearly-impossible questions Snape was likely to throw at him. That idea quickly left him when he noticed the folded piece of silvery material nestled in amongst his books. It was his invisibility cloak, that had been loaned to Draco that morning. There was a note pinned to it, not quite on top but close enough that Harry found it without taking the cloak out of his bag. He unpinned it and unfolded it. It said, in the same green ink and familiar handwriting as the note he had found in his trunk:
"Thank you.
DM
PS- Do you miss me yet?"
Harry grinned, then looked over at Draco, knowing that the blond would catch his eye again. When he did, Harry held the note in such a fashion that Draco could tell exactly what it was. Draco delicately arched an eyebrow, managing to keep semi-eye-contact with Harry despite carrying on a conversation with his fellow Slytherins. Harry read the question in the gesture immediately. He nodded slightly, mouthing a quick 'yes' as he did so. Draco smirked, replying with a slight nod of his own, and Harry could practically hear his happily self-centered response: "Good." And Harry was pleased to know, in some way that he couldn't quite fathom yet, that this particular smirk of Draco's was really a smile in disguise.
Ron watched in half amazement, half horror as Harry left the Hall to go to his Advanced Potions class, smiling.
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Advanced Potions hadn't gone half so badly as Harry had been expecting it to. Snape had been, as usual, an oily git, but Harry found himself rather used to it by this point. It was obvious that he was still annoyed that the DADA job had been handed to another. Again. Still, with the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs that had been mixed into the integrated class, Snape had more people to pick on, and had actually almost ignored Harry's presence for most of the period.
At first, when he had walked into the Potions dungeon, Snape had scowled mightily at him, very pointedly checking his class list. As if Harry would show up there if he wasn't in the class. Che. Harry had summoned up the cheeriest grin he could to launch at the disagreeable Head of Slytherin House, which seemed to only annoy him more. Harry was suddenly almost glad that he had worked as hard as he did for his Potions O.W.L. score (which had been honorarily bestowed upon him by Dumbledore, after Hermione informed the Headmaster of the events of the exam on Harry's behalf- he had been willing to forget about it. Snape had probably been livid), if only so he could spend the year irking Snape with his mere presence. And, to top it all off, Snape had (probably in an effort to make the class as torturous as possible for Harry, or at least as torturous as he thought possible) assigned him to partner with one Draco Malfoy for the entire year.
Hermione grinned for him (behind her hand, where Snape couldn't see) as he put on his most annoyed glare and marched over to his new assigned seat- the right side of the room, on the wall aisle. Draco glared hatefully back at him, doing a marvelous job of keeping the corner of his mouth in line, though it did its best to twitch in amusement.
"Potter." He spat venemously, consciously willing away the laugh that was threatening to rise in his throat.
"Malfoy." Harry spat back, almost smiling but turning it into a grimace at the last second. He took his seat, and Snape turned away to inflict a partner on another victim. As soon as the Potions professor's back was turned, Harry and Draco both grinned, following Hermione's "hide behind a hand" example. It wouldn't do for Snape to suddenly turn and see, and anyway, there was the rest of the class to consider. The rest of the class that had been sending Harry (or Draco, depending on House) sympathetic looks, as if trying to lessen the blow.
The rest of the period had been... interesting, to say the least. They spent most of it covering potions-making theory; how different ingredients combined and why they reacted the way they did. To his surprise, Harry found himself almost... enjoying the lecture. Potions had always been something he wasn't very good at, but remembering some of his most spectacular failures and comparing what he had done with the theory Snape was (finally!) covering, he was beginning to see his mistakes. He could be good at this with a little work, he realized, and also realized that becoming good at his subject was the best way he had ever thought of to annoy Snape.
Harry had spent the period taking notes, with Draco doing the same at his elbow (though in a much better organized notebook). The whole thing felt strangely comfortable and familar. Every once in a while a piece of Draco's ice-blond hair would float down into his eyes and he would alternatively try to blow it away (which resulted in some very cute expressions and the hair returning to its position over Draco's eye not five seconds later) or tuck it back behind his ear with long, elegant fingers. Harry had to resist the strong desire to tuck the strands back himself, which was easier under the threat of Snape than it might have been in other circumstances. Halfway through the class, Draco's inkwell had run dry. Unnoticed by any in the class, Harry's inkwell mysteriously slid about four inches closer to Draco's side of their shared table, and the color of Draco's notes changed halfway through, from emerald green to deep blue-black.
They left the room with their own circles, growling at each other perfunctorily when their shoulders brushed as they exited, hiding the identical happy shivers that had run down their spines when their hands brushed, and not looking back as they were pulled away in opposite directions by the throng of their fellow classmates.
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History of Magic went as it usually did. The room full of students was also filled with soft snores and an occasional thud when someone's head dropped onto their desk. Professor Binns, as usual, kept right on talking, never noticing that he was really only speaking to an audience of two. Hermione was, as usual, taking notes, and Draco was as well. He had apparently managed to refill or grab another inkwell between classes, as his ink was back to its usual emerald green. Harry tried to take notes, he really did, but he had dropped off by the time Binns covered the fourteenth attempt to imprison a wizard known to history as Barney the Flexible (whose original crime wasn't really a crime at all, but that he had annoyed the Minister of Magic of the time by besting him at "limbo" during a Ministry holiday party).
Hermione, who had already studied this particular section of the text over the summer holiday, spent her time (between taking neat notes of the most important points in Binns' lecture) observing Draco Malfoy. It was actually quite an entertainment. He sat, based on their assigned seating, just ahead and to the left of her- perfect for observation, really, because she was seated on the right side of the room and could appear to be observing Professor Binns the whole time. It was entertaining, though, because Draco was doing some observing of his own, in a fairly regular pattern. Hermione watched, somewhat fascinated.
Step one- Draco would be taking notes, and his hair would flop into his eyes. Step two- he would attempt to blow it back out of his eyes. Step three- the hair would return in short order, and he would tuck it back behind his ear. Step four- a slight turn of the head to look at Harry, which caused the hair to flop right back. Step five- repeat hair tuck, return to notes. Step six- repeat.
Hermione observed the ritual with a smile on her face. The glances he was giving Harry every two minutes or so were extraordinarily... well, cute, really. She wondered whether he had done the same when Harry was awake, rather than passed out with half his face smushed into the pages of the History of Magic text. With that bit of wondering came the thought of how Harry would react if he noticed. Flop, blow, flop, tuck, look, flop. The pattern repeated yet again, and Hermione smiled just a little bit wider as she turned her attention back to her notes for a moment.
There was obviously something there. She and Ginny (or rather, Ginny, really. She had noticed once Ginny suggested it, though, and that counted for something!), they had noticed that there was something between the two boys before they had noticed it themselves. It was absolutely wonderful that they had become friends, in Hermione's opinion, though she knew Ron strenuously objected.
She was firmly of the opinion that Harry needed more friends, more people he could rely on. Especially if... well, she couldn't quite bet on it yet, but she was becoming more and more certain that Ron was someday going to get up the courage to ask her out, and when that happened, she feared a bit for Harry. There really wasn't anything more disheartening than feeling like a third wheel- especially if it was all the time- and she could see Harry taking it that way. Flop, blow. Flop, tuck. Glance, flop, tuck.
The Trio's dynamic had already begun to change. She could feel it, even if the boys couldn't. Harry needed to go his own way, and had already begun doing so. Ron, well... Ron was still very much the person he had always been, and expected Harry to be the way that he had always been as well. She, too, felt much the same as she always had, but maintained her own views on what Harry ought to or ought not to be.
It was Harry, really, that was changing, and Hermione saw it. He was growing up, much faster than they were, which was somewhat to be expected. Still, Hermione worried about him. Having someone else to talk to, someone who didn't have this image of you as the perfect savior, maybe that was what he needed. Hermione felt badly about it, but realized that she, too, tended to place Harry into that neat little box labeled "The Boy-Who-Lived", even though it was becoming ever more apparent that that box couldn't hold even half of what Harry really was. Far too many people tried to label him, though he had somehow outgrown the label without warning anyone first. Glance, flop, tuck.
However, if there was one person she could think of who didn't believe in the image, not for one moment, it would have to be Draco Malfoy. And in that, Hermione took her peace. They would be good for each other, no matter what direction their relationship turned. She just hoped that Malfoy was being sincere. Harry was, she knew, the type that threw themselves in with everything they had, without taking a good long look before the leap. When Harry fell in love, it would be fast, hard, and complete; because of that, Hermione felt a strong urge to be protective. If Harry got his heart broken, she would be there with a hug, a shoulder to cry on, and several curses to ensure that Malfoy would never have children.
Nodding to herself in silent promise, Hermione turned back to her notes.
Tuck. Glance. Flop. Tuck. Draco continued his routine, unaware of the watchful eyes just behind him and to the right.
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End of Chapter A/N: I just had to comment on Blaise's notes. I made him into "that guy", I'm sure you've all seen him. The one whose notes are a mess, who never has their books/homework/writing utensils/etc., but somehow still manages to pass their classes and never seems to do all that poorly. That's who I made Blaise. Because somehow, it sort of suits him, and "that guy" really would have been a Slytherin anyway. -