A/N: Shout out to The Rocket Summer, a most awesome CD, which helps inspire (sorta) me as I write. And The Ace Troubleshooters! Beaucoup d'amour!

I walked up the stairs and turned left down the corridor. Up another flight of stairs, around a few more corners, down the last corridor, and I was there. Taking a calming breath, I prepared myself for another trying bout with Miss Granger. The door was slightly ajar, and made no noise as I slowly pulled on the ornate brass handle. The house elves must've oiled the hinges in the recent past.

Looking in, I saw that Granger was already there and, unfortunately, she had a phonograph. I had been in denial as to the purpose of this little rendezvous, but now there was no way that I could say this wasn't a dance lesson.

Why must there be waltzing at the ball? Now I really didn't want to go in, so I just stood outside the door, silently looking in. Granger was sitting on a table looking out the window at the snow-covered grounds. She actually seemed more calm and tolerable than Pansy. How sad that this girl, who contained so many traits that jump on my nerves, would actually be less trying than a pureblood Slytherin. Odd.

Finally, I decided I had better get it over with. I wearily knocked on the door and she looked up rather quickly. Standing up as I walked in, she was the first to break the silence.

"Evening." Oddly, she didn't go on and on as I'd expected, but rather just showed me the phonograph. "We should practice the waltz."

What, no rub-it-in-your-face-you-stink gambit? I was surprised. I was sure she'd want to take this opportunity to tell me how absolutely horrid I was or how I would crush her feet or something like that. But she didn't.

"So I brought this to help." She turned the phonograph on and placed an old record on it. I was quite confused as to why she would use a muggle machine – or even where she would find one – but I decided the fewer words, the faster this would be over.

The record began to play and we stepped into position. It was creepy, really, having to be that close to a mudblood. Perhaps I shouldn't have used that word quite so much, but I didn't feel particularly inclined to be polite. Being that close, I was able to count her eyelashes, which were longer than I had noticed before. Or her eyebrow hairs, which were greater in number than most people's. Ugh. But that's beside the point. It was quite awkward looking her in the face, and much easier to look past her head at the wall.

But that was the problem. Whenever I looked at the wall, my concentration went out the window, and I kept losing the song, stepping on her feet and completely ruining the steps.

Surprisingly, she bore all of this with quiet patience. Perhaps she wanted it to be over just as quickly as I did, but she let her face remain calm, only flinching when her toes were battered repeatedly. It was all very humiliating. She was quite good at dancing, though I wouldn't ever let her hear it from me. However, the fact only made this all the more trying, as I quickly became frustrated by my lack of skill. Finally I had to ask.

"How is it that you already know how to dance?" I muttered, probably sounding quite bitter. But then, I was.

"My father taught me," she said. She seemed bent on saying as little as possible. Not without reason, seeing what kind of person her father was. A Muggle. Something I think they call a dentist. Apparently, dentists' job is to poke and prod inside people's mouths and fix their teeth. How absolutely disgusting. It makes me shudder to think of it. But, apparently, dentists can dance. And I can't. The thought left a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. A muggle better than me at something. Especially something so trivial as dancing. Something most people find easy.

I had lost track of the beat again and stepped forward-left instead of back left, or rather, I attempted to, before my foot caught on Grangers' toes again. Apparently, that was the breaking point in how much her feet could take.

"That's it! Take off your shoes." She broke away, turned off the phonograph, and sat on the edge of the dais up by the podium. Slipping off one of her shoes, she rubbed her foot. Oh, gross. We still had to dance and I had to touch her germy feet-hands. Thoroughly disgusted, I sat on the edge of a table and slowly unlaced my shoes and slid out of them.

I was surprised when she put her shoes back on and I was left standing there in socks. She turned the phonograph back on and stepped up to the center of the cleared space where we'd been dancing. Or attempting to.

"What about my shoes?" I asked.

"You don't get to wear them. My toes can't take your massive boots anymore." She looked frustrated. Of course, that made me even angrier with myself. And her. Her too.

"But what about your shoes?" I asked, trying not to show my anger. I'm not sure I quite pulled it off.

"I need them to protect my already-battered feet. This way, you can hurt your own feet when you mess up. Just so you can feel what it's like." She smirked irritatingly.

Starting to dance again, it wasn't long before I was experiencing pain. Countless times I stepped right into or even under her shoes – which were harder than they looked, by the way.

After probably another half an hour, it was getting ridiculous. I decided her shoes must be steel-toed, but were under a charm to look normal. I probably had six or seven ingrown toenails from the repeated bashings they had received. Blood? Maybe. I was afraid to take off my socks to see the full state of my feet. But I was determined not to say anything. I would not wimp out. I could take pain.

Finally, however, she called a halt. Breathing a very heavy sigh of relief, I shuffled carefully over to a desk and sat. Ow. There wasn't much to be said for my feet, other than that. Gritting my teeth, I bent down and peeled off my socks.

Geez, that hurt.

Letting the cool air sooth my aching toes – which were, in fact, bleeding a little from my left big toenail – I looked out the window at the darkened landscape. Shadowy silhouettes greeted my eyes. Shadows always look so relaxing. I let the darkness wash over me as I closed my eyes.

Then, of course, Granger broke into my reverie.

"This isn't working."

No, really? I hadn't noticed! I kept my mouth shut, but my mind responded scathingly. But then, I held my tongue often. Even with Potter, I never said as much as I was thinking when he provoked me.

"Obviously," was all that came out.

She looked at my feet warily. What, like they're going to attack you? I was feeling a bit resentful at that moment. Her and her big clunky-chunky steel-toed shoes.

Pulling out her wand, she crouched down.

"Hold it. What do you think you're doing?" I asked, pulling out my own wand.

"I'm just going to stop the bleeding, geez," she looked up at me with mistrust, obviously noting my wand.

"I don't need your help!" Okay, so maybe I could've used her help, but I didn't need it. I wasn't so far gone as to accept help from her. A muggleborn.

"Fine!" she snapped, standing up very straight, very quickly. She was short. Only about as tall as me when I was sitting on the desk. I stood up and looked down at her imperiously. She maintained her glowering, though she now had to crane her neck up to look me in the face.

It was ridiculously like a duel or something. A duel of the minds, maybe. Or wits. But then, we weren't trying to be funny.

Finally she turned away and went over to the phonograph and started to pack it up. It's finally over.

"Since you don't need my help for that, you certainly don't need my help for this," she said, turning to glare as she slid the record into its sleeve and yanked a box out form behind the podium.

Crud.

The room was filled with her bashing, crashing, and booming, as she proceeded to carefully put away her phonograph - consisting of her slamming the box on the desk, flipping the clasp open, and practically ripping the lid off. Then she picked up the phonograph and dropped it, accompanied by a resounding clunking noise, in the box. Slamming the lid and flipping the clasp back shut, she picked it up by a worn-looking handle, grabbed the records, and stormed from the room.

Silence echoed around the chamber while, from outside, I could hear her stumping down the corridor, hefting the obviously heavy box.

So I sat there, watching the ornately carved door that was left swinging slowly back toward the room.

What now? I figured I had just ruined the whole plan. Maybe that was good. Or not. I felt really angry, but I didn't really know why. I was angry with her for presuming to think that she could help me, a wizard high above her social class. But I was also angry with myself. I just had to lose it and yell at her, didn't I? Now the plan wouldn't work and Pansy Parkinson would glory in my failure, gloating over it for weeks to come.

I couldn't take the oppressive silence in the room and, slipping my socks and shoes gently back on, stood up and walked quickly from the room. Actually, I went at more of a jog. Well, anyways, I turned away from the way in which I knew she had gone and looped around the long way to the Slytherin common room. Only pausing to give the Bloody Baron a passing greeting, I leapt up the steps to the fourth-year boys room and, throwing open the door, ignored the salutations of the others in the room and grabbed my broom.

I mumbled something to them as I turned and left, but I don't remember what it was. I doubt they caught it either, so it doesn't matter. I felt sick as I hurtled down the corridor and stairs. After a couple more flights of stairs and lengths of hallway, I reached the entryway to the castle. Passing the Great Hall, I opened the giant doors with a loud creak, slipped out and started to run.

Mid-stride, I leapt onto the broom and took off in a two-feet-off-the-ground flight. The rush was incredible, as always. And in an instant, as always, all of my problems were five million miles away.

A/N: So yah, hope you like! Sorry if it takes a while to post the next chap, school's a pain. However, I've discovered that I love to write, so I will try to work it in whenever I can. R&R!