Thank an upper respiratory infection and Imogen Heap for busting through my stubborn writer's block. :)

hg

- - - -

I woke slowly, the morning dragging me through the gray of restless sleep, feeling more like merciless clawed hands clutching my heel than anything else. The mere suggestion of sunlight on my closed eyelids made something wrench between my temples.

Don't wake up, I feebly begged my body. I lay absolutely still for several moments, hoping against hope that I could slip out of consciousness once more, even for just a short while longer.

It took an entire minute of aching confusion to recall why exactly I felt so much like a salted slug this morning. It hit me with the full force of a Bludger to the skull, and my mouth went cotton-dry accordingly.

Hadn't I brushed my teeth? Hadn't I gargled and swished my mouth with water for so long that my cheeks ached? How could the taste of him still sit on my tongue so heavily, like a tainted sweet?

I threw the sheets off and sat up quickly, swallowing hard to quell an incredible surge of nausea. Easy, girl. I tried to breathe deeply, but my chest was tight.

Still breathing carefully and trying to ignore the sourness in my stomach, I unfolded my legs and tried to stand. "Tried" being the operative word here; I had to grasp for the bedpost to keep my balance. My joints felt rubbery, my muscles knotted; likely, aftereffects of that wretched Inopsis spell.

I steadied myself and took a step forward; the stone floor was an icy shock against the soles of my feet, and I gasped loudly. For Merlin's sake, I thought with a surge of irritation. Gritting my teeth, I walked very quickly to my door, threw it open, and continued on to the cavernous bathroom, wobbling only slightly.

If he's in here, I'm going to use the lavatory by the Great Hall, I decided firmly as I crossed the threshold. I glanced around with a pronounced shiver, but there was, thankfully, not a drop of water in the enormous bath, and no other signs of another inhabitant presented themselves.

Malfoy was quite obviously not in the bathroom, but all the same my heart fluttered against my ribcage like a trapped bird. And by Merlin, if it wasn't colder inside than out! I could feel the goose pimples sprouting along my limbs, and realized I'd forgotten to throw on my bathrobe.

Oh, well. I went over to the nearest sink, and inhaled sharply at the sight of my reflection. Apparently, my sleep had been even less restful than I'd assumed. The skin beneath my eyes was a bruised, purple-grey color, and the only other part of my face that wasn't pale as parchment was my bottom lip. I'd bitten it in my sleep, and now there was a burgundy line at its center. I deserve it, I thought harshly, grabbing for the hairbrush near the faucet. I'd almost finished dragging it viciously through my hair before the damp spot appeared on my nightgown. I slammed the brush to the counter, and leaned there for support.

That's what he wants! I told myself, closing my eyes to prevent any more tears from escaping. He'd love nothing more than to walk in for his morning wash-up and see you crying over the sink.

Keeping this thought at the very forefront of my mind, I quickly brushed my teeth and scrubbed at my face, wanting to be finished before he showed up.

Of course, such plans rarely turn out just so.

My throat tightened when I heard his footsteps enter the bathroom. My stomach turned over instantly, and I thought I tasted bile. Sodding hell, Granger, you're not going to vomit while he's in here. I glanced in the mirror to see him casually leaning over to turn on one of the bath spigots; his eyes flashed in the reflection for a split second. It would be the acid on the cake.

I wheeled around and walked past him as quickly as though a dementor were hot on my heels, restraining myself from shoving him bodily into the empty tub basin.

I tried not to notice that, in contrast to my overall sickly appearance, Malfoy looked as though he'd never had a better sleep in his life.

- - - -

"Are you sick?"

I snapped my eyes open and jerked my head from where it rested against the back of my hand. "No, no." Ron's face swam into view, eyes bright and freckles sunny. "I just didn't sleep that well, is all."

Harry used his fork to nudge a sausage link across my plate. "You'll only feel more tired if you don't eat," he reminded me, his face all concern and cluelessness .

I came really quite close to saying "I don't deserve food", but figured that statement would be a bit of a tip-off that fatigue wasn't the only thing bothering me.

"I don't really feel like eating." My stomach gave a nauseous quiver of agreement. "Erm—" I cast about for a second for a decent excuse. "I've just begun my cycles."

Both of my best friends made mumbling noises in response and applied themselves fervently to their scrambled eggs.

I sighed and took a long drink of ice water. I really hated pulling the menstruation card, but there are few things a couple of teenaged boys would rather not discuss at length, and vaginal bleeding is one of them.

At least now they won't make any comments about me looking "off" today, I thought with relief. The circles under my eyes had no doubt been the next order of business.

As both Harry and Ron were now studiously watching the amount of food on their plates decrease as they ate, I scanned the Great Hall to pass the time. Luna Lovegood had her face shoved in this month's copy of The Quibbler, the cover of which proclaimed in lime-colored letters, "New Information on the Rotfang Conspiracy!" One table over, Ernie Macmillan was talking very intently to Susan Bones, whom he'd apparently begun dating sometime over the summer holiday. From the eager look on both faces, I'd wager that they were indulging in some market-fresh gossip.

It was purely by accident that my eyes swept over the Slytherin table, as well; a hot, sickly jolt went through me as Malfoy's gaze met my own. His lips quirked, and he didn't break the eye contact even as the lower half of his face disappeared behind his goblet. I blinked and looked to my plate, not much enjoying the damp chill that had sprung up on my skin.

"Hey, Hermione," Harry chose that exact moment to poke my arm with his finger. He paused, and I turned to look at him just as he poked me again, more slowly.

"Merlin, you're all clammy!"

I slapped his hand away. "Cycles!" I hissed through clenched teeth. "Now, what?"

Harry stared at me intently, giving me the uncomfortable impression that the reason for my odd behavior was stamped across my forehead. Unnerved, I cleared my throat, raising my eyebrows to prompt him to speak. He shook his head slightly, as though clearing away cobwebs. "I was wondering if you did those questions for Snape?"

My stomach lurched strongly and I squeezed my eyes tightly shut, as though I could force myself to completely forget the question I'd just been asked.

Because, for the first time in seven years, Hermione Granger had not completed all of her homework.

Bloody fucking hell.

- - - -

It was difficult to imagine Potions being an even less pleasant experience than usual, but somehow, it managed to be almost as much fun as a tooth extraction.

Thank Merlin that at the very least, I hadn't been forced to sit with Malfoy again. I simply would've had to leave the room, feigning illness or some such thing. Actually, I may not have had to pretend at all; as it was, his presence in the room prevented my stomach from settling the two meager bites of toast I'd had at breakfast, and the cold sweat still hadn't left my skin. My blouse chafed slightly at the damp, tender skin along my collarbone. I cringed. I hadn't checked it in the mirror, but I was fairly certain there was a bruise. A bruise with effing teeth marks in it, I thought, scowling.

"You have an assignment due. If your papers are not in a neat stack in the righthand corner of my desk within thirty seconds' time, you will all receive zeroes." Snape curled his lip and turned from the class with a swish, beginning to scrawl the day's lesson across the board in spiky lettering.

I sank lower in my seat, absently biting down directly on the sorest part of my lower lip. Wincing, I glanced over at Harry, who gave me a grimacing, sympathetic look as he moved towards Snape's desk. It was absolutely laughable, but I felt almost a sort of guilt for not having been able to help Harry out with his assignment. Guess seven years of guiding both Harry and Ron through their studies had conditioned me to a sort of "provider" role. How quaint and maternal.

- - - -

I had just sprinkled the third ingredient into my cauldron, when I began to feel eyes on my back. Not the rather common "Ah, yes, someone's looking at me" feeling. More a sensation of two hot needles pricking me between the shoulder blades. Of course, I knew without a backward glance that it was none other than the Head Boy.

Gritting my teeth against the urge to spin around and glare daggers at him, I poured a large amount of undiluted bubotuber pus into the cauldron with greater force than necessary, and droplets of my unfinished Sterilizing Solution splashed upwards onto my face.

"Argh," I moaned, frantically swiping the liquid off of my skin and out of my hair. I knew for a fact that even incomplete, the solution was so potent that it had the desired peroxide effect on wounds. Unfortunately, it also tended to bleach other surfaces with which it accidentally came into contact, such as clothing. Or…hair.

Fuming, I finished my potion with no further incidents, not really caring either way, only too aware of the fact that I may very well have white spots peppering the frizzy hair surrounding my face. I corked my sample and brought it to the front of the room, handing it wordlessly to Snape and glaring at him for no reason in particular, other than the fact that it was his beloved Slytherin House that had spat out the dreadful globule of mucus that was Draco Malfoy.

As I passed Ron and Harry's table, I noted that their Sterilizing Solution was a murky violet color, and would certainly only cause infection in any wound to which it was applied. Pointedly ignoring the sluggishly bubbling mixture, I addressed Ron with as calm and low a voice as I could find in my throat, considering that Malfoy was only about ten feet away.

"Does my hair look…funny?"

Ron got that startled-gnome look on his face, as though wary of saying anything for fear of being tossed out of the garden. I suppose I shouldn't have been too surprised, considering the fact that even the smallest comment concerning my aesthetically unappealing mane normally caused a font of venom to seethe from my lips. Of course, the one time such a comment was necessary, Ronald hadn't the bollocks to say anything.

Harry came to the rescue, so to speak. "Er…you have got a little—" Harry awkwardly patted the hair at the right side of his face, and I clenched my teeth, forcing a stilted "Thanks" from between them before turning away and fingering my wand.

Nothing a quick dyeing spell couldn't fix, but still. Bloody Potions, bloody Slytherins, bloody… "Everything," I huffed under my breath, firmly fixing my eyes on the remaining potion in my cauldron so that I wouldn't be too tempted to glare at Malfoy.

"Scourgify," I muttered blandly; the liquid vanished from the cauldron, and I began to put my Potions materials inside. I finished by slamming my text rather violently against the iron bottom, and sat back into my seat with a grunt. It seemed that my irritation with the world at large had poisoned my every action; I couldn't even untwist my lips from the scowl they currently formed.

"Why, Granger, you seem to be having a bad day."

His voice was quiet and weighted with malice, like so much wet silk. Heat flared in my cheeks, but I stared intently at my lap, worrying a particularly bothersome hangnail.

"I could help you unwind later, if you like." He laughed softly, but not at all pleasantly. "Although you may not have much of a say in the matter, if matters unfold as they did last night."

My tongue was clamped tightly between my teeth, the desire to whirl around and flay him overwhelming; I tasted blood, but kept my jaws firmly set, afraid of what I might do or say if I loosened their hold.

The end-of-class bell rang then, and I didn't spend more than three seconds scooping up my belongings and heading for the door.

- - - -

It wasn't until I was seated in Transfiguration, rummaging for my text, when I noticed the smallish scrap of parchment, clinging to a damp spot on the inner wall of my cauldron.

You might ignore me now, but we both know exactly where you'll be tonight.