Chapter Five

Hearts Under Sleeves

Here's the thing about Hermione: she wears her heart on her sleeve, shows her face like the books that she so loves, and will get flustered when she lies. I know this because I've been friends with her for almost six years. Before Christmas I'd asked her — in the library during one of her 'last minute' summer exam revision sessions — if she still had feelings for Ron, and all of the disdain on her face at the mere mention of his name drained. Her cheeks went pink and her hair got steadily frizzier, and she plopped a book upright on the table before I could glimpse more of her expression, claiming she needed to concentrate. I didn't mention that the book was upside-down.

The reptile's territorial patrolling habits are only consistent when our lioness is prowling.

My heart is pounding so hard against my ribcage that I don't even snort at the nature of the message. Glancing at the little red lion inked against the parchment, I crumple it and chuck it into the fire opposite the sofa I'm sitting on. I shut the Herbology textbook I found it in and shove it back into my bag; to think I wasn't going to do my homework tonight. I suppose I won't be now. It's eight-thirty, and the crackling fire is the only light fighting against the gloom. I look over my shoulder past the empty chairs and sofas in the common room and catch sight of dark grey storm clouds behind the windows smothering the inky sky.

Exhaling slowly, I return my gaze to the dancing flames. My mind is racing. So I was right. He was just putting up a show for me. The Map never lies, that's what Sirius said.

Unlike —

I'm startled out of my thoughts when the portrait hole swings open. I turn my head, narrowing my eyes at a frazzled-looking Hermione. I offer her a smile, which she returns as her gaze falls over me and the portrait clicks shut behind her. Patting the spot on the sofa next me, I watch as she makes her way over.

While Hermione sinks onto the sofa and sighs heavily, I wonder what happened in the last few months to make her so good at lying.

"How's Ernie doing?" I ask casually, scanning her face. Here's another thing about Hermione: she's not stupid. Her brow raises as she rotates her body to fully face me, one of her legs curled beneath her. Something must've shown on my face.

"Fine," she responds, giving me an equally calculating look.

"Had to give any Firsties detentions?"

She shakes her head, looking pleased. "People were actually following the rules tonight."

"Or you and Ernie just couldn't catch them on time," I deadpan, earning a filthy glare.

"Where's your school spirit, Harry?"

I tilt my head, grinning. "If you're going to break the rules, don't get caught, that's the motto, kids—" I laugh mid-sentence as she throws a crimson cushion at me. Hermione snorts, shaking her head at me before turning it to the fire. As I watch the flickering light in her oaken eyes, leaning my elbows on the thrown cushion on my lap, my smile fades.

Ernie wasn't patrolling with you tonight, I urge myself to say.

But I can see a million ways this could go wrong. Hermione could end up hating me as much as she does Ron right now, and that will only push her further into the snake's coils. So I stay silent. Instead, I mirror her and turn my head to the fireplace. We watch the flames die into embers together.

Let's backtrack a bit: I did end up calling on Kreacher, a couple of weeks ago. He'd appeared in my selected empty classroom — with a confused Ron hovering behind me — having a wrestling match with Dobby. Unintentionally I'd killed two birds with one stone. And no, not the Ron and Lavender kind of wrestling match. I have an odd feeling Peeves would get a kick out of watching that. After I point my wand at the poltergeist who'd appeared with the elves, watching the show below him with glee, I snap, "Langlock!"

We watch Peeves clutch his throat, waving his middle finger at us, before he promptly exits through the wall. Well, his tongue should be glued to his mouth for the next couple of hours, I think smugly, as Ron snickers behind me. "Nice one!" he says, moving towards the squabbling elves and looking over his shoulder. "No doubt from the Prince?"

"Yeah," I reply, grabbing Kreacher from under his bony armpits and hauling him away. Dobby's woolen hat that Hermione had knitted for him last year is slipping from his large ears, as tears stream down his shriveled face.

"Kreacher will not insult Harry Potter in front of Dobby, or Dobby will shut his mouth for him!" he screeches, fighting to get out of Ron's grip. I frown down at the elf Sirius had passed to me, wondering what on Earth he's doing in Hogwarts in the first place.

"Alright, I'm forbidding you from fighting each other — well, I'm forbidding Kreacher from fighting Dobby. Dobby, I can't give you orders —"

"Dobby is a free house-elf and he can obey anyone he likes and Dobby will do whatever Harry Potter wants him to do!" I smile somewhat awkwardly as his big, wide, moist eyes stare up at me in earnest.

"Okay," I say, and on cue Ron lets go of Dobby as I do Kreacher.

Kreacher turns to look at me with eyes that wish murder, but he bows down nonetheless, croaking, "Master wants me?"

"Yeah," I say firmly, and I finally express my wishes to them. I ignore the look of mixed bewilderment and exasperation my friend gives me. I ignore the shadow of fear that crosses Dobby's face. I ignore Kreacher calling me a Mudblood-loving piece of filth who is tainting him and his mistress' line.

"Master wants me to follow the youngest of the Malfoys?" whispers Kreacher, his ears starting to quake. For a moment, I can imagine why Hermione is so against house-elf employment. The creatures might like serving wizardkind, but they can't exactly say no to a command they don't want to do, can they? The moment passes when Sirius' hated elf croaks, "Master wants me to spy upon the pureblood great-nephew of my old mistress?" and I think of all the things I can learn about Malfoy, without the limitations that Parvati has.

So when Dobby and Kreacher appear in my dormitory a few evenings later, I'm expecting any number of possibilities.

Ron's been dragged somewhere by Lavender; Dean's holed up in another place, probably with Ginny, I think, scowling. No clue where Seamus is, likely blowing up a glass in an attempt to practice turning vinegar into wine; Hermione had been the only one to succeed that last Charms class. I do know Neville's gone to the library because he'd asked me if I wanted to come, as he's studying Herbology with Hermione. I'd refused with a smile, claiming I was tired, the Marauder's Map peeking out from under my pillow.

The second the door had shut behind Neville, I lifted the Map atop the pillow and scoured it for any signs of Malfoy. On my fifth turn, I was just about to set it on fire, when the elves Apparated into the dormitory with a knee-jerking crack.

Heart banging against my ribs, I watch Dobby bounce onto my bed. Kreacher lingers in the middle of the room, giving us both filthy looks. "What did you find?"

"Master Malfoy moves with a nobility that befits his pure blood," croaks Kreacher at once. "His features recall the fine bones of my mistress and his manners are those of —"

"Draco Malfoy is a bad boy!" squeaks Dobby angrily. "A bad boy who — who —" He shudders, then starts banging his head against the pole of my bed. I grab him by the middle and yank him back, holding on until he goes limp in my grip. I scowl at a wheezing, leering Kreacher, who's mumbling something about disrespect. "Thank you, Harry Potter," he pants. "Dobby still finds it difficult to speak ill of his old masters…"

I release him; Dobby straightens himself up on my mattress, pointing at Kreacher as he defiantly squeaks, "But Kreacher should know that Draco Malfoy is not a good master to a house-elf!"

"Yeah, we don't need to hear about you being in love with Malfoy," I add, giving my elf a disgusted look, which he returns. "Let's fast forward to where he's actually been going."

Kreacher bows again, looking furious, and then croaks, "Master Malfoy eats in the Great Hall, he sleeps in a dormitory in the dungeons, he attends his classes in a variety of —"

"Dobby, you tell me," I cut off Kreacher, turning my eyes to the wide-eyed elf on my bed. "Has he been going anywhere he shouldn't have?"

"Harry Potter, sir," squeaks Dobby, his great orblike eyes gleaming in the dim candlelight, "the Malfoy boy is breaking no rules that Dobby can discover, but he is still keen to avoid detection. He also went on a Prefect patrol with your sweet friend Hermione Granger—"

"What?" I ask, frowning. I must've imagined that last part.

"That Mudblood has her claws in him," Kreacher growls, and my throat goes very dry. "I've never seen such bewitchment!"

Dobby's ears start quivering, and whips around to the other elf. "You shut your mouth, Kreacher!" he squeaks.

"Yeah, Kreacher," I snap, "Shut up." The elf's jaw clamps shut. He glowers at me with deep loathing, but I'm starting to get used to his empty death glares. I turn my eyes to Dobby, who's looking up at me.

"How was he behaving to her?"

The wrinkles on Dobby's forehead deepen, as he shakes his head slightly. "Kindly. I've never seen Draco Malfoy acting kindly. He was apologizing about whatever he said in the library, actually. " I swallow thickly, unsure if I want to ask the next question.

But, no. My hunch must be wrong.

"And how was Hermione behaving towards him?"

0||0

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My first instinct is to do what Parvati would consider stupid. That's why I seek her out the next morning. It's a gloomy Thursday, the Great Hall's murky grey ceiling reflecting my mood. I scan Gryffindor table for my informant, but when I can't find her, I spot flaming red hair and make a beeline for it.

I need a distraction, otherwise I'll march right across to the other end of the Hall. I'm not even sure if Malfoy's there, but I keep my eyes fixed on Ginny as I approach her.

"Harry," she says brightly as I sit beside her, and my stomach flops. For a second I completely forget what was ailing me. "I hear you saved Ron from a love potion on his birthday. Fred and George are highly disappointed in you."

I snicker. When silence starts to grow, I notice that I'm counting the freckles on her nose, and realize in horror that my cheeks must be going as red as her hair. I clear my throat and look away, scooping some scrambled eggs onto my plate. "Let them know I regret it," I tell her, and when she laughs I feel myself literally swelling. Bloody hell, Harry, I think, gritting my teeth, get a grip. "So, uh, how've you been?" I ask, turning back to her.

She shrugs slightly, lips quirking. I watch them hungrily. "Fine. Lessons are going alright. Quidditch, though —" she adds more enthusiastically, giving me a grin that sends a full-blown blush down my neck, "Looking forward to our match against Hufflepuff?" I can't, in fact, care less about Quidditch right now. But I shoot her a matching grin as I run my fingers through my hair.

"Oh yeah," I say, indulging in that flash over her eyes. "You've been fantastic at practices, by the way." This time, she's the one who blushes, and I have to furiously fight back a smug smile.

"Cheers." She punches my arm lightly. I clear my throat. Again.

I notice that she's not sitting with her boyfriend today. "How's Dean?" Her vermillion eyebrows raise.

"Don't you talk to your dormmates, Harry?" she asks playfully. I laugh nervously, turn to my plate, and start shovelling eggs into my mouth before I start saying something idiotic.

Five minutes later (I was counting the awkward silence) something recognisable in my peripheral vision makes me look up. Quickly excusing myself, I grab a quill from my bag that I hadn't even taken off and throw it at Parvati's retreating back on the other side of the table. She whips around, but the irritation on her face melts into business.

"So give me more details," I tell her, after we briskly advance to the exit and she shuts the Great Hall's door behind us. We glance surreptitiously around the empty Entrance Hall. There's not really any knowing how many latecomers might come sneaking in. "Actually, let's go outside first."

Parvati nods, muttering as I follow her towards the door to the grounds, "I'm surprised you even had the intuition to think about that." I have no idea if she'd meant for me to hear that or if she was just thinking out loud, but I shrug it off as the door shuts behind us. It might be April, but winter's being stubborn this year and on the crueler days it'll still leave a chill lingering in the air.

"Padma knows our Head Girl and Boy," she reports, as we stroll towards the lake. I shove my hands in my pockets as I wait impatiently. "Nyx Rosier of Slytherin and Peter Jamison of Ravenclaw." I nod rapidly, silently urging her to continue. She smirks; I scowl. "They plan out the Prefect patrols. Who goes in what location, on what day. It was Peter's idea that Prefects of all Houses should be partnered together, so when Weasley and Hermione started their duties they were subject to this proposed plan."

"House unity efforts?" I ask, rather curious that both Ron and Hermione had never once complained about having to patrol with a snake at one point or another. Or with Anthony Goldstein, who I hear likes to talk a lot. But then, Ron tends to skip Patrols more often than not and I've learned that Hermione has a deceptive side.

"More of a way to keep track of who's taking their responsibility and who's shirking. You're less likely to cover up the tracks of someone from another House." I raise my eyebrows, thinking with camaraderie about Ron. "So Padma is actually well-acquainted with Nyx. They have some sort of favour-based relationship. That's why I could get her to inquire about Malfoy's attendance."

"And she's definitely sure?" I ask, desperation creeping in my voice.

Parvati cocks an eyebrow. "Which she?"

"Your sister!" I snap, and she simpers.

"Yes, she's sure, Potter." My throat goes dry.

"From the start?"

Parvati shakes her head. "No, last year he started out attending all of his patrols. Then he started skipping the Hufflepuff ones, then the Ravenclaw ones, then the ones he was assigned to with Weasley. By the end of the year he was only patrolling with Parkinson and Hermione."

"But he hasn't patrolled with Parkinson at all this year?"

"Nope," Parvati says, emphasising the 'p' with a pop of her lips, "not even once," and more than anything I can't believe out of all the times I'd whipped out the Map, I'd never come across Hermione's and Malfoy's names moving along an inked corridor on the aged parchment. I suppose I'd never had the reason to look for Hermione, and in some psychological way she'd acted as an invisibility cloak towards Malfoy's name.

I tell myself that, but, somehow, it doesn't sound right. I might've glossed over Hermione and him the times they'd been patrolling together, but I'm certain that I've not been able to spot his name on the Map at times of the day where Prefect patrols definitely don't happen. But at the moment, that's not the point.

Malfoy is very careful nowadays.

I have been picking up on the way he'll not look in any direction which involves Hermione, after his love potion incident. If he can, he'll completely turn his back on her, usually in Charms and Transfiguration. During Potions, he'll keep his head bowed over his textbooks, strands of platinum blonde hair hanging over his steaming cauldron.

But Padma studies Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, her sister tells me, and Malfoy is in both her classes. "Because the classes are so small," Parvati had said, "and nobody who's sane will take those subjects, they shoved students of all Houses together." Which means that Hermione — who when it comes to academic studies is most certainly not sane — is also in their classes.

I wonder if he feels it safe to stare at her during Ancient Runes. I wonder if he sits next to her during Arithmancy. I wonder if she makes him blush. I wonder if Hermione smiles at him. I wonder if Malfoy stares hungrily at her lips.

I clutch my head, glaring at one of the Giant Squid's tentacles emerging from the surface of the lake behind Parvati. She cocks an eyebrow at me, and gives me a knowing look.

"I think Hermione only patrols with him because she would rather burn a book than skip one of her duties, Potter," Parvati suggests, reaching out and patting my shoulder. I'm not so sure.

0||0

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Snape doesn't usually assign us essays during the lesson. That's something he'd prefer for us to do for fourteen inches of homework, so we don't have the time of day for a Hogsmeade trip or Quidditch practice. Today, however, seems to be a different day.

He's coordinated all the desks separately and individually, so it's as if we're in an exam. After commanding complete silence, he'd swooped over to his desk to watch us from behind his mountain of essays that he clearly hasn't been marking in his spare time. As I think about the absolute lazy arse that he is, I glare down between my blank parchment and my tiny-word textbook in synchrony.

Occasionally, the old bat will rise from his seat and sweep over our desks. I'd heard a whack somewhere behind me and Ron's indignant exclamation, which was silenced with ten deducted points from Gryffindor. After the third time he passes my desk, where my parchment remains empty, Snape scuffs me around the back of my head too, and even though I stay quiet he still removes a further twenty points from Gryffindor. Old, slimy, greasy —

A piece of parchment flutters past my right ear. The only reason I reach out with lightning reflexes and catch it, I suppose, is because of Seeker habits. I glance at Snape looking down over Dean's shoulder (I smirk), then look over my own one to spot the creator of the parchment bird. Ron is seething, and I give him an understanding nod. Parvati, who's behind him, is scrawling lazily over her parchment, though I'm not sure if she's actually writing something. I glimpse a few more bored expressions, including Zabini, who's examining his fingernails. Malfoy's on the desk next to him, looking very interested in his textbook.

Brows furrowing, I turn back forward, which is good timing because Snape whips his head round once more and gives the classroom another sweep with his black eyes. As he swirls to turn his back on us and swoops back towards his desk, I unfold the parchment bird.

I can hear your brain screaming like a banshee from here.

It's a harmless message, really. Something small and meaningless from one friend to another during a boring class. But I recognize that handwriting. It's slanted and neat and in the most ridiculous cursive I've ever seen. I've gotten notes from this handwriting, nasty notes about failing Quidditch games and the Triwizard Tournament. And the direction the parchment bird was going to…

One seat forward, to my right, Hermione is sitting hunched over her desk. She's scribbling furiously, her quill emitting sharp, abrupt scratching sounds against her parchment. I can indeed hear her brain in overdrive, and I can't help but appreciate, for one mad moment, the owner of the message.

Malfoy has been very careful, but today, he's slipped up. This is evidence. Sheer, physical, solid proof. No speculation and wondering and cryptic observations. This is the Slytherin in action. I shrug nonchalantly, crumple the message in my palm, and toss it over my shoulder. I have a feeling Malfoy's watching me, and I hope he enjoys the show.

I frown at my still empty essay, then look up at Hermione's hunched back. Dobby's words reemerge in my mind, "She's sarcastic and bossy to him, but it seems he likes it, Harry Potter, sir." I don't know which is more worrying, the fact that Malfoy likes the challenging nature of my friend, or that Hermione speaks even one word towards him. It's the ingredients for trouble, and I would know thing or two about that.