Chapter IV

After a seemingly endless day filled with coddling her arm and struggling to find interest in her classes and the people around her, Hermione was exhausted. From class to class she suffered pangs of excruciating pain as she was jostled to and fro by her fellow students. The chaos of the corridors and being perpetually bumped into had never bothered Hermione. Then again, she had never had an injury of this sort before.

She sank into an enormous soft chair by the fire in the Common Room. As she stared into the flames, she let her eyes glaze over and slip out of focus. Her mind wandered and reluctantly settled on Malfoy.

Draco Malfoy. Such an elegant name perfectly suited to his contemptuous and elegant manner. Malfoy was an enigma. So coldly beautiful, yet he managed to remain single. Sure there was that stint with Pansy, but even Ron, who was less experienced than an eight-year-old when it came to relationships, could tell it would never last. When Malfoy broke up with Pansy, Hermione had been both disappointed and excited. Disappointed Malfoy wasn't the one who suffered being dumped; excited he was once again free game. Not that Hermione would ever so much as think about Draco romantically…

Hermione sat up straight in her chair in shock and embarrassment. Not only had she been doing just that, but she had thought of Malfoy by his first name. In wizarding society, using someone's first name implied attachment and some level of personal caring. The only wizard she knew of who had his friends call him by his last name was Hagrid, and that was probably only because Rubeus was such a beastly name. Or he can't manage to spell it, she thought, recalling Hagrid's coarse grammar and even worse handwriting.

Her face feeling hot, Hermione's mind began racing. Malfoy was certainly not the sort she would ever consider dating. Prejudiced, selfish, egotistical, those were only some of his better traits. He was a Slytherin, she was a Gryffindor. He was born into a pure-blood Wizard family, she was Muggle-born. He was a prat, she was not. He was beautiful in a way that rivaled the classic Greek image of bodily perfection, and she could hardly be expected to measure up to that.

She shook her head violently in an effort to get rid of the picture in her head of Draco, naked, striking a pose reminiscient of the famous statue David. Damn it, she thought, again with 'Draco'. For the last time, he is 'Malfoy'. MALFOY!

More importantly, it was more likely than not that Dra…Malfoy was a branded Death Eater. Hermione would never regard one of Voldemort's trusted disciples as a fellow human being, let alone a potential boyfriend; no matter how exquisite a sample of a human body he had. And that was the bottom line.

Hermione decided it would be better to just go to bed. No more of this fantasizing about her and Malfoy. Even though her hair was far less bushy than last year, some might even call it sleek, and her front teeth had been vastly improved by Madam Pomfrey, she could hardly hope to catch Malfoy's attention. There were so many other better looking girls, and if he was a Death Eater, Malfoy most likely wouldn't have time for any of them. Hermione rose from her chair, and started toward the stairs. Just then Ron came streaking across the Common Room top speed, probably to sit in the chair Hermione had just vacated. Inevitably, he crashed right into her. She fell hard and fast, landing on top of her left arm and underneath Ron. Hermione tried to take in a deep breath to keep from crying out, but the mass of Weasley on top of her was making her lungs claw the air for a fair breath. Ron took his time getting up, and when he was finally on his own two feet, he started to help Hermione up. When she grasped his arm to stand, his face became a violent shade of pink and he started sweating. He gruffly dragged Hermione to her feet. Mumbling something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a mix of an apology and a declaration of his undying love, Ron swept off to his dormitory in a rush, the chair forgotten. Hermione didn't think twice about Ron, just called him a blind and clumsy git, under her breath of course. With her arm throbbing again and her whole body feeling as though she'd been hit by the Whomping Willow she began to ascend the stairs.

When she got to her dormitory, Hermione couldn't help but not be impressed. Last night it had seemed much less shabby. Tonight it was just her dormitory again, a room for a single person with a bed and a wardrobe and not much else. Not exactly her idea of excitement. Even the colors seemed diminished. Remembering her fright this morning, she had no idea how she could have confused the faded red of her bed-hangings for the vibrant crimson of fresh blood. Sighing in her disappointment and acknowledgement at the state of her living quarters, Hermione shrugged off her robes and climbed into her bed, not bothering to put on pajamas. She hoped she would at least sleep as well as she did the night before.