Draco Malfoy had risen early on Thursday, as he had a letter to send.
What met his eyes in the Owlry was red paint. A poem, painted on the floor, with owls hooting all around it.
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore—
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over—
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
And that was just like Granger, wasn't it? Brutal, uncompromising, and seeing everything in Black and White. Throwing down the gauntlet.
No, perhaps he was misreading her, putting words in her mouth she had not said.
No, this was her acknowledgement... of his dream.
He wasn't sure really what she was saying - was it a challenge, a "Come Get Me!" a "Catch Me If You Can!"... or was it a quieter refrain, like someone sipping smooth scotch and getting slowly drunk, before they'd even realized they were tipsy? What in bleedin' hell had Blaise told her? Draco knew he couldn't keep writing... Had Blaise told her that too? Because if he had...
Draco read the poem, and then copied it down, deciding to leave it emblazoned there until the next person with detention got sent to clean the Owlry by Filch.
It was a poem that seemed to read his heart.
It could stay another day.
[a/n: Hermione writes back. A bit more boldly than sending an owl.
Then again, she's not sure who she's writing to.
Also, this is the second chapter today.
Reviews make me write faster!]