Sorry it took so long! I was dissatisfied with the last part, so of course I had to write the whole chapter over again.
Well, read and enjoy. A lot of sweat, tears, and snow day-time went into this.
Chapter Thirteen: Rounds
DING DONG DANG DONG DING DING DANG DONG
Hermione peeled the scarlet comforter off her head with a shriek similar to a herd of charging hippogryffs.
DING DONG DANG DONG DING DING DANG DONG
"Stupefy," mumbled Hermione half-heartedly, and the buzzing red alarm clock toppled off the bedside table. It hit the ground with a thud, then continued it's racket.
DING DONG DANG –
The alarm clock exploded int bits of red metal and magical screws.
Hermione eyed the scorch mark, and with a satisfied 'hmph', pointed her wand at all that remained of the offending machine. "Scourgify."
Contrary to popular belief, Hermione was not a morning person.
When Hermione finally dragged herself down to breakfast, she found her best friends chewing oatmeal and toast, tying their shoelaces and exclaiming over their schedules.
"Bloody effing hell, we have Snape at seven in thebloody morning?" yelled Ron. Hermione slid into her seat next to Harry, and leaned across the table to smack Ron on the head.
"Don't swear, Ron," she told him, and picked a blueberry bagel off the plate in front of her. She toasted it with her wand, and looked around for the butter.
"'Don't swear Ron', she says. Weren't you screechin' a few unmentionables this summer?" demanded Ron. His ears were already turning their tell-tale red.
"Hmm? Oh, Ron, you have a spot of marmalade, right here," replied Hermione, pointing to the left of her nose. Anger forgotten, Ron rubbed at his cheek.
"Hello, Ronald. Harry, Hermione," said a detached, dreamy voice behind them. Hermione turned to see Luna there, a strange smile on her face. When she returned to her bagel, Ron was pink, muttering something.
There was silence for a while as the Trio looked over their schedules.
"You know what," said Harry, and Hermione raised her head. "If Cedric hadn't died, the Triwizard Tournament would be going on right now." Hermione shook her head rapidly, and swallowed the piece of bagel in her throat.
"It is happening. But out of respect for Cedric, Hogwarts isn't participating. I think they asked a Spanish school."
Silence reigned again, and because of it, the mutters around the tables could be better understood.
"Is that Hermione Granger?"
"Hermione Potter now, you know."
"Really?"
"Who's the hot chick next to Potter?"
"His sister. Hermione Granger?"
"You're fucking with me. There's no way SHE could be Hermione Granger."
"No. Hermione Potter now."
"You sure that's Hermione Granger?"
"Yeah."
"Jesus, the Potter family multiplies like frickin' rabbits."
"Look at the pair of ti–"
"Shut. Up. There's no WAY that could be that BITCH Granger."
"Yes! I was formerly Hermione Granger, I am now Hermione Potter. Yes, I used to be frumpy. Yes, this is how I really look," Hermione had whirled around angrily, and shouted her statements to the entire Great Hall. There's was stunned silence as she grabbed her bag and stormed out.
Whispers followed her.
"What a bitch."
"OMG, could you believe her?"
"The nerve."
The Slytherin and Gryffindor first years, a group numbering at about twenty-five, were waiting for their flying instructor.
And, as expected, they filled up their spare time with what eleven-year-olds are aught to do.
"OI! Marberry! Fancy a snog?"
"With YOU, Inkleman? I'd sooner marry a pig."
"With that nose, your mother probably did."
"Hey, you want to take it up to the air, Heckle?"
"Marberry, you couldn't hit a stationary giant if you had a flashlight and a map."
"And you're so much better, Heckle? Want to see your arse whipped by a girl?"
"Arse whipped? By you?"
"FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT . . ."
Oliver raced towards the quidditch pitch, throwing his robes on and trying to desperately remember the teaching instructions Madame Hooch had left him.
In his line of vision, his first class was forming a circle, chanting something at the top of their lungs. Remembering his years playing quidditch against the Slytherins, Oliver had a pretty good idea of what they were bellowing.
He finally reached the group in time to push the punks aside to reveal a redheaded girl beating the shit out of a blonde boy. The blonde, who, by the insignia on his robes, was a Slytherin, was desperately trying to land a blow on the redhead.
She, however, was untouchable.
Oliver grabbed the back of her robes, and yanked her to her feet. With the other hand, he picked up the blonde.
"Names," he snapped.
"Jenny Marberry," snarled the girl. A Gryffindor, by her robes.
"James Heckle," sneered the boy (as well as he could, through a black eye, a split lip, half a dozen scratches and something that looking like a broken nose).
"You two look marvelous. Well enough, in fact, to clean and oil school brooms this evening. All of them." Jenny rolled her eyes, but offered not protests. James had, at this point, become semi-unconscious, and Oliver handed him over to a fellow Slytherin, who promised to see his housemate to the infirmary.
"All right, back to the brooms. Move it!"
The other students reluctantly broke up, and returned to the lying brooms.
"I'm Professor Wood, quidditch coach and flying instructor. Now, hold your right hand over your broom and clearly say: 'Up!'."
"Up!"
Nothing so much as twitched. Oliver fought the urge to rub the bridge of his nose with his hand. This was going to be a long day.
Hermione finally reached her room in a state similar to drop-dead exhaustion. But it couldn't be exhaustion, because Hermione Potter was never tired. Perhaps overworked – perhaps frustrated – but she was too organized to be exhausted.
And the first day of school no less!
"I'm not tired," she muttered to herself, and threw the large book bag onto the common room couch. "Not tired at all."
"Talking to yourself, Potter? That's a bad sign." Of all the people she had to share a common room with, it had to be him, didn't it? Certainly, he was most qualified for the position, but really.
"Well then, I suppose talking to your reflection isn't healthy either, Malfoy?" she snapped irritably.
"When one has a reflection as attractive as mine, one can't help talking to it," he replied, moving into her line of vision, looking very pleased with himself.
"You really are an arrogant bastard, aren't you?" she asked, fighting the urge to bang her head against the mahogany coffee table. That would be showing that Malfoy got to her, and that was the last thing she wanted to do.
"My parents were married when they had me, I assure. Father wouldn't let something as uncouth as wedlock spoil his heir," sneered Malfoy. His smirk was infuriating, and Hermione allowed herself the daydream of taking his perfect pale face and smashing it into the marble fireplace.
"Unfortunately, inbreeding seemed to have slipped through his fingers," she replied, and grabbed her bag to slip by him. She was just through when his hand latched like iron onto her forearm.
"I'm inbred? What about the Potters? Your mother was the first one to ever marry into the Potter line."
Hermione Potter, vessel of control, who never let her temper slip (except for that one time in third year, but really, who could blame her? All that stress from exams and Buckbeak's execution and Malfoy just kept pushing and pushing . . .), felt her fist curl, and seconds later, the cartilage in Malfoy's nose crush under her knuckles.
He let out a howl of pain, dropped like a rock, and let go of her arm to clutch at his nose. Blood seeped (more spurted, actually) through his fingers, and dripped onto his impeccable robes.
"Hmm," said Hermione, surprisingly calm considering all the school rules she had just broken, "And I thought that vampires had dust flowing through their veins."
All she got in reply was Malfoy's shrieks.
That was when the laughter came.
But when she reached her bed, and threw herself onto it, all the doubts started coming in.
YOU IDIOT! The first day of school and how many rules have you broken?
Just one, actually. The one about not assaulting other students.
Do you think anyone is going to believe that your fist slipped and smashed Malfoy in the nose?
He was provoking me. According to the school fighting codes . . . oh, wait.
Exactly. NOTHING about how if he provokes you, you don't get in trouble.
Maybe Malfoy won't tell.
The little voice in her head began laughing hysterically. With a groan, Hermione buried her head in her pillow.
And promptly awoke three hours later.
"Oh dear," she muttered weakly. The red alarm clock had returned, in all it's shiny glory, to perch on the bedside table. Apparently, it was eight o'clock. "I can't believe I slept through dinner," she murmured, and sat up.
The mirror across from the bed gave a short squeak. Looking at herself, Hermione saw that her beautiful new hair (Or was it originally mine, therefore making it old? Oh, bugger.) was standing straight out from her head exactly how it used to.
With a quick brushing spell, her waves were returned in all their shiny goodness. Quickly she grabbed a quill and a spare piece of parchment.
Harry, Ron -
Sorry about dinner. Slept through it. After rounds I'll come to the common room. Be by the fire (don't you dare sit in my chair, Ronald Weasley) around ten.
Love,
Hermione
She hastily folded the square into a rudimentary crane, and with a wave of her wand sent it skittering out the door to find Harry or Ron.
Deciding to stop by the pear on her way to the Gryffindor common room, Hermione exited the house dormitories. In the common room, little drops of blood were all that were left of Draco Malfoy and his mangle of a nose.
This being his first time issuing a detention, Oliver Wood had no idea what a teacher would do. However, having been on the receiving end of many a pink slip, he knew exactly what a student would hate.
When James Heckle and Jenny Marberry arrived, James looking far better than he had eleven hours earlier, Oliver was waiting with one hundred school brooms and fifteen cases of broom oil. Silently, he handed them each a rag, confiscated their wands, and left them to their oiling.
When he returned an hour later, they had just finished, and settled down to glare at each other with evident hostility. He sent them on their way, and started carrying in the brooms.
Normal wizards, having magic at their disposal, would have waved their wands and been done with it.
Oliver, however, liked the feel of the wood in his hands. He respected brooms – they held the life of a person in their slender bodies. He also knew that Hogwarts didn't spare much money on their flying department – if one broke, that was the end of it.
So he carefully picked up a broom in each hand, took them into the shed, deposited them on their rack, and returned outside to carry in another pair.
When only two were left, he heard harried footsteps from around the corner. The owner was muttering furiously.
" . . . believe I slept through Potions . . . Harry and Ron will think . . . idiot, idiot . . ." Hermione suddenly appeared around the side of the broom shed, shaking her head furiously. " . . . what will they think . . . Oh! Oliver! I mean, Professor Wood."
Oliver froze in the process of picking up the Cleansweep 150, and Hermione's eyes wandered down to the other broom lying on the ground. Awkwardly he straightened, and she rushed forward to help him, picking up the remaining flyer.
"Just making my rounds," she said quietly as the entered the cramped room. Broom shelves lined all four walls, and in the center were four small chests, which most likely held the playing balls. Oliver set his wand down on the top of one, and placed the Cleansweep in his hands on one of the two empty slots. Hermione hastily followed, dropping her wand and sliding the broom in.
She looked up to find Oliver's eyes on her, and he quickly dropped his glance. He fussed with the bristles of a Goldenridge below the Cleansweep. One broke off in his hands and he stuffed it into the pocket of his robes.
"So," he said, and paused. Then: "How are your classes?"
"Wonderful," replied Hermione, desperate for any topic. She began to speak quickly, like she used to before Harry and Ron told her that normal humans couldn't hear her when she spoke that fast. "I unfortunately slept throughsome of my classes today, but I'm sure that they were wonderful. I mean, all of the staff is fully qualified, well, except for Umbridge, but she was a bit of a slip-up on the Ministry's side, and Dumbledore would never allow anyone to teach after that nasty incident with the centaurs, so the mysterious new DADA teacher (whomever that is)– "
"Her name's Every," interjected Oliver in a last-ditch attempt to stop the flow of information that was pouring from Hermione's mouth.
"Oh. Right, Professor Every. Dear me, the time's absolutely awful, isn't. Nine already? And I haven't barely started my rounds. I should go." Oliver nodded in slow agreement, and they left the shed. Hermione locked the door with her key, and they had gone a few steps out into the pitch before they both stopped and looked at each other.
"Wands," they said in unison, and as Hermione pulled both keys out of her pocket to find the right one in the failing light, it began to rain. Hard. In fact, it made such a great mud puddle out of leftover dust, that when Oliver stepped forward to help her, he slipped, knocked into her, and both keys fell into the mud.
They went onto their knees, digging through grass and dust and rain, but both metallic keys were gone.
The rain was, if possible, coming down even harder now. If either Hermione or Oliver took time to watch the rain (which they weren't, because the loss of their wands was a more pressing matter) they would have noticed that each drop was the size of a marble or so, and when it hit bare skin, felt like a hit with a softball.
Hermione's long hair did nothing to deflect them, and, if anything, absorbed the rain so as to drip it torturously under her shirt and down her spine.
Soon she was shivering in little jolts, shakes felt through her entire body that had pauses in between a few seconds long.
Oliver quickly noticed, and pulled off his heavy teaching robes to wrap over her back. She looked up, and pulled them off with stiff fingers.
"It won't do us" – shiver – "good to have" – shake – "one person hog all the warmth and the other have" – shiver – "none at all." Ignoring her, he threw the soaking wet garment around her. By mutual silent agreement, they backed into the shade of the broom shed.
"Do you want to make a run for the school?" asked Oliver. Hermione shook her head, and found that once she started she couldn't stop. She grasped her head in both hands and forced it to still.
"I had to sneak out. My rounds were supposed to be done hours ago. The door locked behind me, but I didn't have to worry because I still had my wand then."
"Great," muttered Oliver, and found himself forgoing his macho exterior to shake a little. Giving a maternal 'hmph', Hermione unwrapped both cloaks – giving Oliver a long glance at her transparent shirt – and threw the heavy material around his wide shoulders.
Then they sank to ground, and huddled. Also by mutual agreement, they kept a centimeter between them at all times. Eventually, though, Hermione's head was burrowed against his shoulder as her lips turned blue, and she whispered, "How is it this cold in September?"
"I have no idea," replied Oliver, and then, of all things, it began to snow.
Hogwarts was already drowning in something like three centimeters of water (it felt like sitting in a kiddie pool), and the immediate drop in temperature meant that it started to freeze around them. The quidditch field looked like something out of a 9th grade science project.
The thick flakes weren't as large as the rain drops, but Hermione's hazel eyes widened, and her teeth began to frantically knock together. Oliver drew one arm out of the warmth to wrap around her shoulder and pull her against him. He leaned against the shed, and she leaned against him.
It would have been terribly romantic if they could've felt their toes.
So . . . if you could just review, I could tell you whether or not they all die buried in a snowdrift, all right?