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As Hermione had predicted, the sixth-years' free periods were not the hours of blissful relaxation Ron had anticipated, but times in which to attempt to keep up with the vast amount of homework they were being set. Not only were they studying as though they had exams every day, but the lessons themselves had become more demanding than ever before. Non-verbal spells were now expected, not only in Defense Against the Dark Arts, but in Charms and Transfiguration too.
Brewing Felix Felicis was already taking up a disproportionate amount of her time; luckily, at this phase of the potion, she and Nott generally managed to successfully alternate brewing responsibilities, forced to share the cramped room where the potion was kept, hardly larger than a broom closet, only on a rare occasion. Thankfully, these shared moments had so far been spent in focused silence.
Hermione had decided not to tell Harry and Ron about Felix. She knew Ron would think she was mad, and she knew Harry would be somewhat pleased purely for the opportunity to try to get more information about Malfoy through Nott.
She didn't deny this opportunity to learn more about Malfoy, and she had every intention to use it wisely, but her primary motivation was liquid luck.
Harry's best subject had suddenly become Potions, thanks to the Half-Blood Prince, and Hermione grew more and more suspicious of the book with each Potion's lesson.
She was glad to see Harry taking more of an interest in Potions, and even enjoying it, but she felt he was, as usual, disregarding his own safety.
"You can't be sure those directions will always give you good results, it's dangerous… it's the reason why potions are tested and trialed and tested again and again before their instructions are distributed—"
"I'll be all right, Hermione," Harry had assured her, "I'm only using it in class."
Hermione highly doubted it, having also spied a novel spell or two written in the margins of the book.
Perhaps if she had more free time, she would've been able to devote more effort toward convincing Harry to avoid the book, but she found herself so busy, she'd barely even thought about the necklace again, even though it remained clasped around her throat.
It was only for a few moments each evening, exhausted beyond the point of caring, that she remembered its presence, and, often holding the joined rings of the necklace in her hand, promptly fell asleep.
At least I'm sleeping now, she thought dryly as she ate breakfast with Harry and Ron the Saturday morning of Gryffindor's Quidditch tryouts.
"I hate not talking to Hagrid," she told them, noting Hagrid's absence at the head table, which had been a frequent occurrence as of late. She felt the half-giant was surely avoiding them. They hadn't managed to speak to him yet, and she hated to think he was upset with them; plus, she missed him quite a lot.
"We'll go down after Quidditch," Harry assured her. "I miss him too," he added with a small smile, which she returned.
"But trials might take all morning, the number of people who have applied. I dunno why the team's this popular all of a sudden."
Of course you don't, she thought in dry amusement.
"Oh, come on, Harry," she said. "It's not Quidditch that's popular, it's you! You've never been more interesting, and frankly, you've never been more fanciable."
Ron promptly gagged on a large piece of kipper.
She knew she was right— she'd heard enough of the chatter in the girl's dormitory, not to mention the comments in the loo. Suddenly, it seemed nearly every female student in Hogwarts wanted to date Harry, and truthfully, it was beginning to drive her a bit mad.
But she wasn't about to examine exactly why it was driving her mental.
Across the hall, Draco observed Harry, Hermione, and Ron's interaction from the Slytherin table, feigning interest in the thick book propped open before him.
Hermione's comment about Harry's fanciable-ness made him feel as though he'd like to slam his head inside said book.
He was eating alone this morning; Theo was otherwise engaged. With what, Draco didn't know, but he couldn't help but shake the feeling his friend was up to something, and was purposefully withholding whatever that something was. He didn't mind eating alone, however.
Thank Merlin Parkinson's avoiding me. Draco was relieved to note that she seemed to at last have taken his many— rather blatant— hints after their painful exchange a few days ago.
He'd been sitting by the fire in the Slytherin Common Room, a hearth that never really seemed to emit any warmth, no matter how large the flame. He'd deep in thought, rolling his ring between his fingertips— an action which had become habitual. The word "Library" glowed inside the curved platinum.
He was busy imagining what Granger might be studying in the library when he was startled by Parkinson's unceremoniously appearance beside him, her overtly fruity perfume assaulting his nostrils. Without warning, she plucked the ring from his fingertips only to place it on the ring finger of her left hand.
"For me, Draco? How sudden! And is this a family heirloom? Of course you'd know I'd accept nothing less."
"I don't have time for this, Parkinson," he growled. She frowned at the use of her surname, but was otherwise nonplussed.
"Don't you like the ring on my finger though, Draco? You know, my parents got married right after graduation, that's less than two years away for us."
She held out her hand, admiring the ring. Draco withheld the overpowering urge to cut off her finger right then and there, utterly repulsed by the thought of marrying Pansy Parkinson.
"No. I don't. Now give it back, and please, Parkinson; leave— me— alone."
Undeterred, she wrapped her arm around him and swung her legs into his lap. There was a time, not all that long ago, when Draco would have amused her, let her hang all over him— he would have even reveled in the attention. But he could no longer stand the sight of her, nor the sound of her voice. Draco could barely stand his own reflection in the mirror these days. All she cared about was wealth, status, blood purity, and of course, servitude to the Dark Lord and his mission. Draco's aims hadn't really been that much different all that long ago, but his life was different now, he was different now.
He stood abruptly, and she toppled to the floor with a squeal of consternation and surprise. He didn't notice the eyes of his fellow Slytherins around the room gawking at the exchange, many of them sniggering at Parkinson's expense.
He did not hesitate as he aimed his wand in her direction. He saw fear in her expression, and felt an odd mixture of sympathy and satisfaction.
"Accio ring," he commanded smoothly.
"Draco—!" She shouted as the ring found its place back on his finger.
"You're nothing!" She screeched, red-faced. "I've heard about your father— not just his imprisonment! The Malfoy name's not so grand now, is it? Your family is done— you're done!"
He looked down at her, a disheveled heap on the floor, and felt nothing but remorse and repulsion— with himself.
Why had he ever led her on? He wondered, then walked away silently, headed toward the library without another word.
Draco shook the memory from his mind as he idly flipped a page in the book spread out before him— he hadn't read a single word from the moment Hermione had appeared in the Great Hall.
At the Gryffindor table, Hermione spared Ron one look of disdain before turning back to Harry.
"Everyone knows you've been telling the truth now, don't they?"
Like I've known all along, Hermione thought.
"Look— you'll always be 'Harry' to me, but the whole Wizarding world has had to admit that you were right about Voldemort being back and that you really have fought him twice in the last two years and escaped both times. And now they're calling you 'the Chosen One'—well, come on, can't you see why people are fascinated by you?"
"And you've been through all that persecution from the Ministry when they were trying to make out you were unstable and a liar. You can still see the marks on the back of your hand where that evil woman made you write with your own blood, but you stuck to your story anyway…"
Hermione rather suspected she too would forever have a scar, and she absentmindedly touched her fingertips to the necklace's burn, beside her collarbone. The redness and swelling had subsided, the mark now only slightly raised and pink, but the 'M' shape was as defined as ever.
"You can still see where those brains got hold of me in the Ministry, look," said Ron, shaking back his sleeves.
"And it doesn't hurt that you've grown about a foot over the summer either," Hermione finished, ignoring Ron, and observing Harry had grown into himself over the past year; his messy black hair as charming as ever, his green eyes piercing. There was no denying his attractiveness.
So what? A voice in her mind answered. Harry's not the only physically attractive boy in our year now…
The image of Malfoy standing in dark green robes inside Madam Malkin's flashed across her mind. She shook her head and frowned; judging the attractiveness of the male student body should be the least of her concerns.
"I'm tall," said Ron inconsequentially.
Still listening in at the Slytherin table, Draco coughed on a bite of his toast.
Pathetic.
As repulsed as he was at the idea, it had always seemed like there was something more going on between Potter and Granger, now more than ever… but Weasley and Granger? He scoffed at the thought. The idea was as ridiculous to him as the idea of he and Parkinson. Even he knew that Granger, although Muggle-born, deserved better than Ron Weasley.
Just as Draco was about to take another bite of toast, the post arrived with a flurry of owls swooping down through rain-flecked windows, scattering everyone with droplets of water.
He didn't bother to look up; he knew there'd be no mail for him.
Knowing the Malfoy correspondence would be inspected on both ends, he and his mother had established a secret code prior to the start of term in order to disguise their true messages. He'd received only one letter this term; his mother had informed him she was all right, but had instructed him to write only if absolutely necessary, to use his efforts to focus solely on the task that had been given him… and to trust Severus Snape.
Hermione looked up hopefully, expecting a letter from Mr. Weasley or Bill, but the only thing that arrived for her was a copy of the Daily Prophet.
Noting her disappointment, Harry leaned over and whispered in her ear, "Don't worry, Hermione, Mr. Weasley's got to be working on it, I'm sure he and Bill are just really busy."
She smiled at him in thanks and then unfolded the Prophet, scanning the front page.
"Anyone we know dead?" asked Ron in a determinedly casual voice; he posed the same question every time she opened her paper.
She too felt a sharp pang of fear each time she opened the Prophet— if pureblood witches and wizards weren't safe, it seemed to be the only logical conclusion that Muggles and Muggle-borns were in even more grave danger. She thought of her parents each time she held the Prophet in her hands, along with the dismal plan that was beginning to take shape in her mind— her plan to try to keep them safe.
"No, but there have been more dementor attacks," she explained. "And an arrest."
"Excellent, who?" said Harry, obviously hoping for the arrest of a Death Eater.
"Stan Shunpike," swallowing her surprise at reading the name.
"What?" said Harry, obviously startled.
She began to read aloud, "'Stanley Shunpike, conductor on the popular Wizarding conveyance the Knight Bus, has been arrested on suspicion of Death Eater activity. Mr. Shunpike, 21, was taken into custody late last night after a raid on his Clapham home...'"
"Stan Shunpike, a Death Eater?" said Harry, outraged, "No way!"
"He might've been put under the Imperius Curse," said Ron reasonably.
"You never can tell."
Unless the Imperius was performed improperly, Draco thought grimly as he continued to listen in. The date of the first Hogsmeade trip was approaching, and he knew he'd have to enact his plan soon. He'd never cast the Imperius before, and he could only hope his endeavor would be a successful one.
"It doesn't look like it," said Hermione, who was still reading. "It says here he was arrested after he was overheard talking about the Death Eaters' secret plans in a pub." Draco saw that when she looked up, her expression was troubled. "If he was under the Imperius Curse, he'd hardly stand around gossiping about their plans, would he?"
"It sounds like he was trying to make out he knew more than he did," said Ron. "Isn't he the one who claimed he was going to become Minister of Magic when he was trying to chat up those Veela?"
"Yeah, that's him," said Harry. "I dunno what they're playing at, taking Stan seriously."
"They probably want to look as though they're doing something," said Hermione, frowning. Her faith in the Ministry was contentious.
Granger's right, of course, Draco thought.
He'd never had much faith in the Ministry, which had always seemed to him rather incompetent, ineffective, and wasteful as a whole. It was an opinion he knew he'd inherited from his father, but he now willingly took ownership of it.
It's why it's been so bloody easy for Voldemort to infiltrate, Draco thought in irritation. He knew the Ministry was weaker than it'd ever been before; under Voldemort's lead, Death Eaters were taking over positions of power, and fast.
Draco mused with curiosity that it seemed Granger likewise was not a fan.
"People are terrified—you know the Patil twins' parents want them to go home? And Eloise Midgen has already been withdrawn. Her father picked her up last night."
"What!" said Ron, goggling at her. "But Hogwarts is safer than their homes, bound to be! We've got Aurors, and all those extra protective spells, and we've got Dumbledore!"
Harry had been keeping she and Ron updated after every journey he and Dumbledore made into the Pensieve— every new bit of information about Tom Riddle's past seeming worst than the last— but Hermione noted their Headmaster seemed more often absent than present.
"I don't think we've got him all the time," she said very quietly, glancing toward the staff table over the top of the Prophet. "Haven't you noticed? His seat's been empty as often as Hagrid's this past week."
Draco had noticed, rather keenly.
As if my job's not hard enough, he grimaced, wondering how he would ever be able to complete his task with Dumbledore gone from the castle most of the time.
As Harry and Ron looked up to the staff table, Hermione ventured a glance over at the Slytherin table only to find, much to her displeasure, that Malfoy was looking at her.
She glared at him, and he gave her a scathing smile. She turned back to Harry and Ron and lowered her voice.
"I think he's left the school to do something with the Order. I mean... it's all looking serious, isn't it?"
Harry and Ron did not answer, but Hermione knew that they were all thinking the same thing. There had been a horrible incident the day before, when Hannah Abbott had been taken out of Herbology to be told her mother had been found dead. They had not seen Hannah since.
Draco's gaze returned to his book, but he wasn't reading. Although he could no longer hear what Granger, Potter, and Weasley were saying, by the dismal looks on their faces, he could tell they were talking about Hannah Abbott, whose mother had recently been killed. The complete details of her death were still largely a mystery… outside of Voldemort's followers.
Draco knew she'd been killed to instill fear and obedience. He knew Voldemort had been the one to do it, too— he'd felt the searing pain— Voldemort's joy— in his Mark after it had happened, likely when the Dark Mark had been cast into the sky in victory.
The name Abbott was an old, respected one, with a long pureblood lineage, but Hannah's mother had refused all efforts to join him. The message was clear; no one is safe. Follow me or die.
Unless you're Muggle-born, Draco thought gravely, glancing again at Hermione, then your only option is death. He considered Hermione probably knew of these dangers more than most, and he idly wondered what she'd try to do to keep her parents safe.
It won't be enough, Draco thought darkly, knowing too well the strength of Voldemort's will.
Why do you care? It was as if Theo were there beside him, asking this question.
I don't, Draco told himself weakly, his eyes following Hermione as she left the Great Hall with Harry and Ron. I could care less.
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