Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all his lovely companions are the property of J.K. Rowling. I am not J.K. Rowling. Hence, Harry Potter and all his lovely companions do not belong to me. (All that rambling was really just an excuse to use the word 'hence,' which I think is just a fun word to say.)
A/N: Has anyone ever seen or read The Importance of Being Earnest by Oscar Wilde? Do you know the part at the end where, through a comically implausible coincidence, the main character, Jack, whose eternal happiness is in jeopardy because his name is not Ernest, finds out that he was adopted and that his real name is, in fact, Ernest? I fear that I have unintentionally created a similar coincidence in this chapter; it is too neat, too fortuitous, and too perfectly symmetrical. You'll see what I mean when you read it. I might decide that it's just too easy, and throw a wrench into the works later on. Tell me what you think.
On to the chapter!
Chapter 6: Headaches and Revelations
Malfoy awoke the next morning at dawn, as was his custom, with painful waves emanating out from the slightly bruised knot in the center of his forehead. He winced as he sat up, and groaned loudly when he pulled back the green velvet curtain around his four-poster and light washed over him. He rubbed his eyes and levered himself out of bed, wondering if it was worth it to drag himself down to the infirmary for a dose of Hollingworth's Headache Relief Draught or if living with his throbbing head would be preferable to hearing Madam Pomfrey's "the evils of drink" lecture one more time.
His decision was made for him when a small tawny owl flew in through the open window and landed on the trunk at the foot of his bed. It stared at him inquisitively and held out its leg, to which was attached a small band bearing the Hogwarts crest and a letter. Malfoy took the letter, perplexed by who in the Hogwarts castle would feel the need to owl him. He scowled at the letter as soon as he recognized the painfully neat handwriting marching in careful lines across its surface.
Malfoy:
Come down to breakfast. I need to talk to you.
H.G.
Who did she think she was, ordering him around? He was a Malfoy, a pure-blood, a Slytherin, captain of his Quidditch team, and Head Boy to boot. She had no business telling him what to do. He fumed with silent and indignant fury, and briefly considered ignoring the summons and allowing her to sit and wait for him all morning. He spent a pleasant moment imagining the exact shade of purple Granger would turn when she realized that he wasn't coming, and then went to get dressed. He didn't want his late-night efforts to have been in vain, and the thought of the look on one intolerably good-hearted Gryffindor's face when she realized she'd been bested was making his pounding head feel slightly better.
Fifteen minutes later, Malfoy was walking briskly into the Great Hall, wincing as early morning sunlight streamed down from the enchanted ceiling and into his eyes. He squinted at the practically deserted room, quickly taking note of the fact that, with the exception of the Arithmancy professor, who looked annoyingly wide-awake, and a sixth-year Ravenclaw with his nose buried in a book, he and Granger were alone. Speaking of Granger, she didn't seem to be enjoying the light very much either. She was shielding her eyes with one hand, and waves of bad temper and impatience were rolling off of her.
She looked up at him as he entered the room, and waited with an unmoved expression and a relieved heart as he sauntered over to her. As he neared, he saw her glance at his forehead, and felt understanding and irritation flash through her simultaneously.
"So it's your fault, then," she snapped at him. He blinked, running over his recent actions in his mind to try to find something that he'd done and that she would know about that would warrant the intense dislike she was feeling for him at that moment.
"What's my fault?" he wanted to know, taking a step back when she whipped out her wand.
"My bloody headache," she explained, standing up and inspecting the bump on his forehead. He batted her hand away when she made a move to touch the tender spot. She scowled at him. "No wonder nothing I did made it any better. I spent half an hour trying to heal a headache that you woke up with." She muttered a few words and pointed her wand at the bruised area, and Malfoy immediately felt the pain recede. Hermione breathed a sigh of relief and sat back down, and Malfoy seated himself beside her.
"Thank goodness. I was beginning to wonder if all this empathy business was wreaking havoc with my brain and I was either going mad or getting ready to explode." Malfoy didn't say anything (though he later thought of a few choice words having to do with the questionable tense of the word "going" and his absolute support for the latter option) because it suddenly struck him that he was sitting at the Gryffindor table with Hermione Granger of his own free will. He didn't know whether to be mortified or revolted. Perhaps both.
"You needn't be so uptight, Malfoy," Hermione commented without looking at him as she began to scoop some eggs onto her plate. "None of your nasty Slytherin friends are here, and I certainly won't tell anyone that you deigned to sit with a lowly Muggleborn, and at the Gryffindor table, no less. Your dubious reputation is intact." He glared at her, because her interpretation of his feelings was so accurate and because it made him feel slightly more grounded in reality.
"Don't do that," he growled as he reached for a piece of toast.
"Then don't be so obvious," she replied smartly. She was feeling smug, which only made Malfoy feel more sullen.
"Did you have a reason for summoning me down here like a common house elf, or was it purely for the pleasure of your company?" Her twinge of indignation at the house-elf comment (which had been entirely intentional) did not show on her face, much to Malfoy's disappointment, and she began to speak with the slightly haughty, business-like competence that she was so famous for, and which grated on Malfoy's nerves no less now than it had when they were first-years.
"I researched the potion in the library, and discovered that it has a very rare side-effect. Not much research has been done on the subject, so there was very little information," she explained in a clipped tone.
"I know," Malfoy said almost mournfully, remember his long hours of fruitless searching the night before. She shot him an odd look and he could feel that she was puzzled by the response, which gave him a small amount of pleasure.
"It's called the Iunctus Mens Effect," she continued, searching through her bag for a neatly folded piece of parchment with a ragged edge; the missing page, he knew. "A man named Cractacus Hopper studied it back in the 50's."
"I know," Malfoy repeated, this time with a small smirk. Her puzzlement became suspicion with this latest interruption. She narrowed her eyes as she studied him, and he squirmed uncomfortably under her honey-brown scrutiny.
"You know something," she said accusingly. He shrugged as he carefully buttered his toast.
"Perhaps," he replied evasively, enjoying his game immensely.
"Quit feeling so damned pleased with yourself, Malfoy!" she snapped loudly, drawing the attention of the perky professor and the studious Ravenclaw, both of whom only now seemed to notice the peculiar pair seated at the deserted Gryffindor table. Hermione looked at them and lowered her voice to a furious hiss. "Tell me what you found."
"Well, I was reading through Hopper's published works and personal notes --"
"You were what?" Hermione interrupted him with wide eyes and a jolt of shock that almost knocked him from his seat. He recovered quickly and took a small bite of his toast, brushing a non-existent crumb from his pristine black robe.
"Yes, you see, my father has managed to acquire some valuable texts, and Hopper's work, along with some personal notes bought at auction, happen to be among the ones I brought to school with me." Bitter envy was radiating off Hermione, and Malfoy was so enjoying it that he briefly considered their link a blessing.
"Even the Hogwarts library hasn't been able to acquire copies of Hopper's work. It went out of print ages ago. I asked Madam Pince."
"My father has considerably more influence than Madam Pince, Granger," Malfoy reminded her smugly. She was furious, and he noticed how it made her eyes glitter.
"More money, you mean," she spat, pushing her eggs away as though she'd lost her appetite. Malfoy was in just a good enough mood to let her loathing of his father slide.
"Anyway, back to my story. I found reference to an assistant of his who discovered a way to counteract this blasted link, or whatever it is. I think the answer is in her journals." Hermione gave him a smirk that he knew rivaled his own.
"If you had bothered to pay any real attention to the priceless piece of history that you undoubtedly tossed to the floor when you were done with it," she said scathingly, "you would know that Delilah James' journals were lost when she married." Malfoy gloated inwardly, knowing that she could feel his smug sense of triumph and equally aware that it was driving her crazy. He pulled his own neatly folded piece of parchment out of one of the pockets of his robes and pushed the page over to Granger, pointing to an specific passage. The parchment was aged and yellowed, and what was unquestionably Hopper's own handwriting was scrawled across the surface. It appeared to be an entry into a research log, or perhaps a journal.
Delilah has stopped responding to my owls. She never revealed her method to me or to Edward, and now I fear it will be lost forever. Delilah was never sentimental, but she would not deny me such valuable information that could so greatly affect my life's work. This is not her doing. I blame her husband, so much colder and more distant than she could ever be, and the rest of the Malfoys, who have not only deprived me of a valuable assistant, but have deprived the world of a great mind.
"She married a Malfoy," Hermione said numbly.
"My great-uncle Blake, as a matter of fact," Malfoy replied. "Her journals are in the family archives. I've owled Mother. They should arrive by next morning's post."
Hermione stared at him speechlessly for a moment. Then he felt a strange twinge of painful pressure between his eyes and Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose with a groan.
"I think my headache's coming back," she moaned from behind her hands. Malfoy only smirked, and took another delicate bite of toast.
A/N: One of my favorite things about J.K. Rowling is that she puts so much thought and planning into the names she gives her characters. I myself have spent hours online looking up names and meanings for characters in stories I write. Even if no one else gets it, I like to know that the names of my characters say something about them. For those of you who are interested, Blake means "pale blond one" or, alternatively, "dark." Is that a perfect name for a Malfoy, or what?
Oh, don't forget to tell me if you think the little "married to a Malfoy" thing is too much of a coincidence or if it's okay the way it is. I have some ideas that could make it less neat and tidy, but I'm not sure if I want to use them. I really want feedback on this.