I've been sitting on this for a long time, with the intention of working on it - but apparently I'm simply not in the right frame of mind to do that. So here it is, as rough as can be. I hope you like it anyway.
I am also terribly sorry for failing to reply to reviews/comments. Life has been insane.
DISCLAIMER: I own nothing but this so-called plot.
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"I applied Arithmancy on nearly all of Trelawney's predictions in third year!" she stated with acute (and slightly shrill) exasperation, "They were all so sensational and woolly. And that's exactly what the calculations showed – I can't begin to tell you how many of them had zero probability of coming to fruition, Malfoy!"
He scoffed, lounging in his chair with an over-the-top show of patience like he was indulging a raving lunatic.
"And yet you spent a good chunk of your life courting death because of one of her oh so woolly prophesies. Potter's entire life was dictated by it."
"But that," she rejoined hotly, "Was because Voldemort–" (he winced so faintly that it may just have been a trick of the candlelight) "–had decided to take the prophecy seriously! He made it valid by giving it merit it didn't deserve. He marked Harry as his equal, and Harry being Harry couldn't back away from the responsibility of doing the right thing–"
"So it's all down to Potter's messiah complex and The Da – you kno – his paranoia?"
"Yes! Trelawney simply rambles semi-ambiguously, and she's only a seer because people have decided she is."
This debate was taking place as they worked on an Arithmancy assignment for a lesson that was just half an hour away. There was a part of her brain that was screaming at her for wasting time, but that part was easily overpowered by her desire to...
Get.
Him.
To.
Concede.
He dropped his quill on the table between them and brought his elbow to the arm of his chair. He tilted his head, resting his temple against two fingers and thus stepping up his languid disposition.
"Let's say the prophesy only came about because of fear and gullibility. You still have to admit that the whole thing played out exactly as she had foretold."
"Pff." Hermione rolled her eyes. "That's because she's an expert at phrasing and walking the line between vagueness and suggestion."
"I don't understand. Is she a blithering fool or is she a shrewd genius?"
"People can be both, you know," Hermione sniffed.
He grinned. Something in his gaze sharpened. "Indeed."
The implication was clear. Hermione felt her hackles rise.
"Alright," he continued as, in a fluid motion, he straightened his head and dropped his hand onto his lap, "Is Delphi the same way then? Was she a fraud as well? A devious-puppet-master-cum-deranged-babbler?"
Hermione attempted to execute a casual shrug though her shoulders were stiff with umbrage. "Perhaps. She was allegedly high on ethylene fumes, anyway. If she hadn't opened her mouth – or her supposed third eye – we might never have known the pathos of Greek tragedy."
"And yet, there on that parchment in front of you, you have numbers that prove her predictions had at least some merit. And these calculations have nothing to do with how seriously people decided to take what she said–"
"But the answer is never one, is it? We calculate the likelihood of something happening, but have we ever come across a prediction that's proved to be certain? I mean, I could say it's going to rain tomorrow–"
"It isn't."
"And it'll fall somewhere between zero and one–"
"Definitely zero."
"Does that mean I'm a seer too? Well, all right! Beware, Malfoy – before the midnight hour, all your hair is going to fall off!"
He was sniggering at her with one side of his mouth pulled higher than the other. "Put on monstrous glasses, drape yourself in trumpery beads, and you'll look remarkably like Trelawney."
"Oh, off with you!"
"In a bit, Granger," he chirruped, "I need to get this assignment done first."
"Right–" she cleared her throat, "–So we should move on to–"
"Just one more thing, though."
"What?" she sighed.
"How do you propose we test the true veracity of a prophecy?"
"W-ell," she hedged, "If such a thing does exist... I suppose it can be proved if the maker of said prophesy is kept in complete isolation, and makes the prediction to an unbiased, uninvolved party. And it'll have to be something precise – not a bit of clever phrasing or something general and vague and open to interpretation..."
She didn't need his look of derisive scepticism to know she sounded ridiculous.
"Right," he drawled, "Let's lock someone up until they say something that's exactly to your specifications. And keep them there until it is fulfilled... or isn't... but who knows how long that'll take, yeah? I mean, it only took seventeen years for the Potter-Lord prophesy to come true. So let's just keep them locked up forever, right? That's really bloody ethical."
Seriously. Malfoy was calling her out for being unethical.
"It was purely hypothetical!" she sputtered defensively.
"And you do realise that no-sodding-one can ever make a specific prophecy in an isolated environment, don't you?"
"So you admit it's a sham?"
"True seers are said to react to the magic around them... like weathervanes for magical energy, if you will. I do believe it is perfectly possible to be intensely attuned to that. As for the way they choose to verbalise those inklings..."
"Go on," Hermione urged with narrowed eyes.
"Just a load of artistic liberties and bollocks."
She reared backs so suddenly that it was dizzying: "Huh?"
"You know. A bit of suggestive flimflam. Cleverly crafted ambiguity."
"But – what – you just–"
"True, unconditional prophesies are a myth. Trelawney's definitely full of it."
"Malfoy!" she yowled, "If that's what you – What the hell was all this about?!"
He feigned a yawn. He cracked his knuckles, he sat up straight, he picked up his quill.
"We really ought to get back to this assignment – only fifteen minutes more to finish it," he said.
"But! Just hold on a minute–"
"Fifteen minutes, Granger."
He began writing. Hermione's mind reeled with vehement incredulity as she glared at his bowed, stylishly tousled head. Fifteen minutes... fifteen minutes... how long would it take to empty her inkpot all over those pale locks?
He smirked haughtily, as though he could hear her thoughts.
Fifteen minutes.
She got back to work, too.
The ceiling of the Great Hall was bright blue and clear with a flurry of owls circling beneath it.
Hermione ignored the Daily Prophet that was dropped in front of her in favour of drizzling honey into her bowl of porridge. The state of her hormones had put her in the mood for something terribly sweet, and she went about her task in a Pollock-ish manner. Finally, after she felt she had achieved some compositional harmony, she turned to the paper.
Her spoon fell into the bowl with a dull splodge.
MINISTRY PASSES GROUNDBREAKING BILL FOR THE REHABILITATION OF WAREWOLF ATTACK VICTIMS:
10th April 1999: Following a six hour long deliberation with the Wizengamot, a committee led by the Minister for Magic himself was successful in launching its program to aid the scores of people whose lives were destroyed by Fenrir Greyback's pack of werewolves. Under this act, (unofficially dubbed Lupin's Law,) victims that have so far been under the care of St. Mungo's Lycanthropy Centre will be offered a lifetime's supply of Wolfsbane potion. The Ministry will assign a counsellor to help the adults secure jobs and housing.
An additional clause of this act has ensured that the many young orphaned children will be looked after. The construction of a sprawling mansion is underway at a property donated by Andromeda Tonks, (widow of the late Edward Tonks, and mother to the late Nyphadora Tonks.) The orphanage is to be maintained partially by the Department for the Regulation and Control for Magical creatures, supplemented by donations made by various anonymous sources –
Hermione's eyes had misted over. She stared through the blur at the photograph accompanying the article: It showed Kingsley striding across the dungeons of the Ministry, followed closely by Percy, Andromeda, and various figures in plum robes, including Tiberius Ogden.
She pushed the paper across the table to Ginny and Neville and shovelled a spoonful of porridge into her mouth. It was much, much too sweet.
She saw many things in her honey-drip painting. She saw Lupin's rare, truly delighted smile that she'd only ever seen around Harry or when he spoke about his son. She saw his son, pink-faced, dimpled, waving his fist about. She saw the thing with feathers that perches in the soul –
And she saw herself in plum robes, marching through the Ministry, steeped in the glow of something momentous and significant.
xxx
Since the day was so fine, and it a Sunday to boot, Hermione agreed to follow Ginny into the quidditch pitch after breakfast. She took a pew at a sunny spot in the stands and composed a letter to her parents as Luna, Neville, Hannah, Susan and Mandy chatted and discussed the game taking place above their heads.
It was three a side, and while Ginny, Dean, Demelza, and Malfoy were all competent chasers and Michael minded his three hoops, Theo couldn't be less interested in performing his duties as a keeper. He floated idly and lazily around the pitch, paying no attention to Ginny and Dean's fury. He swooped over to where Luna was sat and kissed her; Malfoy and Demelza scored some twelve goals each.
An hour later, he was still utterly unaffected by his team's devastating loss. A few of them decided to head to Hogsmeade, and all the way, Dean and Ginny harped away at him. He told Dean that he looked quite sexy when he was angry.
They ate sandwiches at a new deli that had opened by the book shop.
Hermione supposed it was the weather that was making everyone completely crazy. Spring in the air – the season of blossoming love, flowers, butterflies, and blah-blah.
It wasn't long after their lunch that Harry showed up and whisked Ginny away. He'd actually petted Hermione's head as he'd left – he was in that kind of mood. Neville and Hannah disappeared soon after.
During the walk back to the castle, Theo and Luna were in one of their bubbles. Once inside, Mandy whispered something in Malfoy's ear, causing him to smirk and drag her off somewhere down a third floor corridor.
So ultimately, it was just Hermione, Dean, and Michael climbing up staircases.
"Do you know," Dean grumbled, "How long it's been since I've had a half-decent snog?"
"Don't look at me," Hermione warned at once.
"I wasn't," he insisted irritably.
"Nor me," Michael piped up.
Dean bared his teeth at him.
"I've got to send this off," Hermione said, waving her letter as she broke away from the boys. She went up to the owlery and watched the owl carrying her letter fly off and away until it was a mere speck in the sky... until it disappeared into the blue.
She wasn't wistful anymore, though her soul craved a kind of blossoming too. For the first time, she felt in control of her path. Fifty-eight days till the N.E.W.T.s. Though she knew full well that life did all it could to veer its players off course, she was going to try her damnedest not to let it.
There were no words to describe how vexed Hermione had been – and still was – by the sole Exceeds Expectations in her O.W.L result sheet. She begged Hestia to give her extra practice assignments.
She was on schedule, determined, equanimous, and sleeping no more than four hours a day.
Morning run – twenty-five minutes. Five minutes to sprint back to her room. Fifteen minutes to shower. One hour of revision before breakfast.
She was perfectly aware of how her peers looked at her when she brought her strident persona out during their group sessions. Increasingly, she found that they were just getting together out of habit; they could no longer work on the same things because very few of them were at the same stage that she was.
Tough as it was to admit, the subject she felt most accomplished in was Arithmancy. With Malfoy, she'd somehow found an ideal blend of competitiveness and productivity, (often fuelled by irritation, but that hardly mattered.) She was already halfway through a second notebook – they'd done dozens of mock exams, scores of calculations, proved and evaluated numerous prophesies...
And just when she'd be at the risk of feeling smug or complacent, he'd show her up and she'd be irritated into productivity all over again.
Like for instance, at that moment she was unreservedly, out-and-out desperate to beat him for once after he'd finished tabulating three of Delphi's predictions before her–––
"Shut up!"
Stunned, Hermione snapped her head up. "Excuse me?"
He was glaring at her like she'd spit in his eye and called him a ferret. "Stop bloody muttering, would you?"
"I was not muttering!" she exclaimed.
"You were," he persisted irritably, "You've called Delphi every name in the book."
"No, I–" Ahem. She felt embarrassment flood her face. Her eyes dropped to her lap and she mumbled, "I didn't realise I was saying that out lout. Er, sorry."
There was no response from him for some time, so she risked a glance–
Yes. It was as expected. That same old questioning-Hermione-Granger's-sanity look that she'd witnessed on all too many faces.
"It's just all this... this... flowery rubbish she spouted!" she said with fanatical intent to defend herself. "Paragraph after paragraph of baroque superfluous...ness... before she actually gets to the point!"
Malfoy's mouth curled into a wry half smile. "You aren't fond of the occasional poetic turn of phrase? I find that hard to believe."
"It's hardly occasional!" she protested, "And it's so unnecessary here! Such a waste of my time, trudging through all this when there are so many other things to do!"
"How terribly inconsiderate of the great Oracle to not have considered your pre-exam schedule while making her monumental prophecies."
"She was a seer," Hermione sniffed, "She should have seen it coming."
He laughed.
He laughed out loud with a kind of guileless amusement that was rich and infectious and left her grinning at the top of her quill.
"Well, Granger," he declared with great pomposity, "You know what you must do."
He paused long enough for Hermione to huff and ask, "Oh, what must I do, Malfoy?"
"Persevere." There was an enigmatic twinkle in buried in his enunciation. "Keep pushing that boulder up the slope."
Her grin was threatening to return with reinforcements. She sucked in her cheeks and said, (as dryly as she could possibly manage in that moment,) "You're hilarious."
"I know."
He returned to his work, but Hermione dithered. It said a lot about the poor state of her mind that that small pretence at witticism had felt tremendously refreshing. She yearned for it to have lasted a little longer. It gnawed at her insides as she slowly dipped her quill into her ink pot and it protested as she pressed the tip against her parchment. She tried to look at the page of Greek characters before her but they all fused into a muddy haze.
"You know," she ventured somewhat hesitatingly, "There are many more works in Camus' oeuvre that are considered must reads."
His hand stilled and he looked up at her from under pale eyelashes and curved brows. "All situated somewhere on the scale of bleakness, I suppose?"
"Well, yes," she acceded with a shrug, "There's one – possibly his most famous work of fiction – The Outsider –"
"I've read it."
His pronouncement threw her off completely. She put her quill down and settled against the back of her chair. He had a familiar, incongruent blend of humour and contempt swirling about his face, under a thin veneer of apathy. She decided to label it his 'in a dilemma' expression – though she was the one who was really wavering between approaches; it seemed like that was how he always looked when she was in such a state of mind.
Perhaps she should call it his, 'I'll bet you can't possibly pick the right thing to say, Granger' expression. It was both frightening and downright galling that the onus was always on her. She should simply get back to work and put an end to the ridiculous deadlock.
"There's a bookshop near the visitor's entrance of the Ministry. I popped in before my trial."
Hermione could've sworn she heard a farcically exaggerated noise of screeching breaks as he diverted her strategy once again. He hurried on before she could react–
"Of course, I only read it after... but the irony wasn't lost on me. Certainly not when the memory of waiting in my holding cell was so fresh in my mind. So you needn't bother pushing this bit of depressing introspection unto me – I've been through it quite, quite thoroughly."
"That wasn't why I brought it up!" Hermione objected.
And it truly wasn't. There was no part of her that conflated Malfoy with Meursault anymore – she knew he could cry bitter, broken tears out of worry for his mother. She hastened to say something vaguely reassuring... but he positively killed the sentiment as it began to climb out of her voice box.
(He scoffed. He rolled his eyes.) "Bullshit."
So she scowled. She grabbed her bag off the floor and summoned a thick, heavy book from within her beaded pouch.
"Here you go," she said sourly, "The Pickwick Papers. One of the most clever and riotously funny books ever written. While there is a bit of incarceration involved, even a sourpuss like you–"
"What the f– Sourpuss?"
"–hilarious, and completely unrelatable. Unless some untoward ex-girlfriend of yours has dragged you to court for a breach of promise ...?" He shook his head with very grave, deliberate solemnity. "Well then," she concluded, "You're safe from any dangerous introspection."
Malfoy turned the book over, running a finger along the spine as he read the back. His mouth was pursed to the side contemplatively.
"Spiffy new plan of action," he declared after he'd finished. He sat back and placed his interlocked fingers on top of the book, all crisp and businesslike. "I daresay this is a much more effective means of sabotaging–"
"Oh, what is it now?!"
"Come on. Giving me a... what was it? Riotously funny and bloody fat book to read less than two months before the N.E.W.T.s? What is that if not sabotage? You're trying to get me to fail."
Hermione wished she had his remarkable facial control. How she struggled to keep down her laughter, while he maintained nothing more than a subtle smirk!
"Why on earth would I want to do that?" She dragged her voice as she spoke, hoping to sound convincingly fed-up.
He looked down his nose at his criss-crossed fingernails. "You feel threatened by me, intellectually, of course."
"Oh, please–"
"Tell me, Granger... is this book full of flowery prose?"
Hermione leant forward and waited until he met her eyes. "It's the absolute Dickens."
She let herself laugh at her own awful joke, and when he didn't crack a smile, she laughed harder still.
It was sacred, ritualistic circumambulation, it was Caesarian ambition, churning an ocean of milk, running her hands through her hair, slapping her face to keep awake during balmy afternoons and post-lunch lethargy...
She stuck a list of topics (classified according to subject) on the back of her door. Every night, at least three things had to be crossed out.
Three days after she'd sent them her letter, Hermione received a response from her parents. They'd also sent her a small bag of treats and two large, bright white, multi-pocket folders – one for her, and one for Theo.
Outside the Ancient Runes classroom, she handed it to him and said, "Here. They're sending you stationery, which means that they've decided that you're their child. Welcome to the family."
"Theodore Granger," he mused smilingly, "I like it."
"Nott-Granger."
"Yes, Granger."
"Nott-quite-Granger? It matters Nott. Granger or Nott, you're still–"
"Hermione," he chuckled, "You need to sleep more."
"No, I do... No–"
"Don't."
"Okay, I will Nott."
He groaned and buried his face in his folder; the devastation of his pose was much diminished by the fact that it had Chipper Choppers embossed on the cover in glinting sliver letters.
Hermione dragged herself through the common room door after a miserable, half-arsed jog around the grounds. She was lightheaded and couldn't stop yawning. The purpose of her run – providing a boost of invigoration – had definitely not been accomplished.
She expected to find the room empty at that early hour, but much to her surprise, she found Malfoy sitting by the large window with a book in his lap.
Her book.
She dragged herself over to him. Somewhere along the way her foot hit a desk, and the noise jerked him out of the book. He blinked disorientedly while she parked herself on the arm of a nearby chair because she just couldn't stay on her feet.
"Are you happy with the unrelenting hilarity of those Pickwickian adventures?"
Tinged blue and pink by the early morning light, he closed the book, (but not before marking his page with a black filigree bookmark.)
"You were wrong about it being completely unrelatable."
"Oh?"
"I'm pretty sure Theo is based on Sam Weller."
Laughter bubble out of her as she nodded in agreement. "Somewhat, I suppose. And what about you then? Are you like Mr. Winkle, with your delusions of sportiness?"
"Hardy har," he sneered, but it didn't seem very vicious.
So she continued, "Although, if Theo's Sam, you could be Pickwick... with the way he watches out for you–"
...He grinned so widely and unexpectedly that her breath caught in her lungs.
"So he's my valet, eh?"
"No!" she refuted at once, "I was alluding to the parallels in personality only."
"Right."
"Yes, that's right!" If he would stop grinning, she might be able to shoot him down properly. "Like... like you're the idle and rich Bertie Wooster, and he's the clever and resourceful Jeeves–"
"Still my valet, though."
"Not the poi–"
"And you," he drawled, "Are most certainly an overbearing Aunt Agatha in the making."
"I am not a snob!" she snapped, "And while I'm well aware that you treat your friends like underlings, that was certainly not what I was getting at!"
It was only after his expression turned unreservedly frosty that she realised how open and easygoing it had been before. Shame pickle at her inside and out, while her brain decided to supply her with the memory of him bound before her, urgently seeking her commitment to Theo's safety –
She wished she could snatch back her words and run away. Chagrin clung to her well-established exhaustion and she felt fucking heavy – but unfortunately not heavy enough to sink through the ground.
The colour of his eyes was made to communicate fury. Like ice sparkling over cold, hard granite.
She gulped. "I didn't mean that."
"Don't worry, Granger," he ground out in a disturbingly even tone, "For once you delivered the exact point you were aiming to make."
"Honestly, Malfoy, I–"
"Yeah, fuck off."
He stood up and walked away, up the stairs to the boys' dorms. She watched him go in silent shame. He'd left the book behind.
xxx
That night Hermione decided, though she absolutely hated doing that dance with him, that she would tender a proper apology to Malfoy. She'd felt awful the whole day, a feeling that had reached its zenith when she remembered that one of his underlings was dead, and the way in which Malfoy collapsed against a wall afterwards...
Yes, she would be copiously repentant. Of course she didn't expect him to be gracious about it – but that was all beyond her control.
I apologise, Malfoy.
I regret what I said, Malfoy.
She lay in bed and practiced saying the words out loud. They sat like something bitter on her tongue; combined with the twisting in her gut, she thought that this was what dysentery felt like.
Alas, she caught no more than fleeting glimpses of him the next day. There he was during lessons; but then he vanished. He wasn't around for meals, he wasn't in the library, he wasn't in the common room. Perturbed, she finally had no choice but to question Theo. He was in a rush to meet Luna before curfew, and paused in a strange sprinter's stance when she stopped him just a few meters away from the door.
"Where's Malfoy?"
"Why?" he asked inquisitively.
"Arithmancy... stuff," she replied patly.
"In his room, I think." He straightened and turned so he was facing her properly. "Do you want me to get him?"
"No! Oh no. It's not urgent or anything."
Theo left with a quizzical air, looking at her for the long moment it took for the door to close between them. Hermione sighed and took a seat on the sofa next to Padma, whose aspect towards her had thawed considerably in the past week. It most probably had something to do with the fact that Terry was frequently spotted in the company of a sixth year Ravenclaw, (named Lucy or Lacey or something.) Well good for him and all that.
She stayed there after Padma called it a night, and long after Theo returned looking terribly mussed. At some ungodly hour, a trio of House-Elves showed up to clean the room and she, to their everlasting horror, insisted on helping them.
It was three in the morning when she finally went to bed, and it was the kind of unsettling sleep that felt like she had awoken mere moments after her head had hit the pillow. Her watch, however, told her that it had been four hours.
As she washed, she wished she was made of sugar or sand so that she'd crumble and melt under the surge of hot water. Pulling her socks on felt like an enormous task; she flopped back in bed after she had finished, head swimming, eyes burning, eyes watering, eyelids fluttering...
Her eyes flew open and it was eight-thirty and – bugger – she dashed out of her room in a deranged panic, bursting into the common room that was... full of people not in their uniforms?
Dash it all, it was Saturday.
Very sheepishly, she rolled along back into her room to change. She took a moment to observe herself in the mirror, trying to will the intensely high colour off her face. She ran her fingers through her manic hair and twisted it up into a high bun.
When she returned downstairs, Theo was waiting for her, obviously having witnessed her embarrassment.
"What is going on with you?" he asked as he led her out by the elbow.
"Nothing," she sighed, "I'm ravenous."
She fished a couple of chocolate bars out of her bag, (honestly, her parents were saints,) and together they walked around an open courtyard as they ate.
"You really need to pace yourself, Hermione."
"You're eating ten times faster than I am!"
"That's not what I meant, and you know it," he snapped, "You already know that whole curriculum backwards. Stop being absurd."
Of course when he said absurd, her thoughts immediately jumped to Malfoy. But then she realised that Theo looked more than simply annoyed with her...er, eccentricities. There was something just off about him.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
He didn't say anything – just leaned back against a pillar and looked at her with his mouth turned downwards in a way that said not now, please. So she went and stood next to him and rested her head against the warm stone. Sunlight felt good on her face; when she closed her eyes it seeped through her eyelids, and the world glowed orange like a blazing rock salt lamp.
On Sunday afternoon, Hermione was the first one to arrive at the library for an hour of charms revision. She didn't waste any time waiting, and immersed herself in her notes on conjuring charms. The rest of them straggled in in ones and twos, muttering hullo and making a general racket as they got their books and other paraphernalia out. She didn't really acknowledge any of them... except Theo, for he plucked away the quill holding her hair up rather than going through the effort of retrieving his own. Him she scowled at.
"Where's Draco?" Neville asked just as Hermione was about to set the hour's agenda.
She paused and looked around: He really wasn't there. Surely... it couldn't possibly be because of her, could it?
That's when Mandy piped up, in a manner that was aberrantly testy – "Yes. Where is Draco?"
Theo took his time in settling, in draping his robes over the back of his chair and placing his parchment exactly between his inkpot and textbook. Mandy's mouth was tightening by the second.
Finally, he replied, "Draco isn't here."
A few people laughed, but Mandy was not one of them. "Where is he, Theo?"
He gave her a blank stare. "He has some personal business to attend to."
"That's exactly what he told me before he left!"
"Then what are you asking me for?"
"I want to know what exactly this personal business is! He's been a beast all weekend!" Mandy lashed out at a volume that probably gave Susan an ulcer.
Theo, unperturbed, said, "I'm not at liberty to say."
"I'm his girlfriend! I ought to know–"
"If he thought you ought to know he would have told you. Now, if you're through tormenting poor Susan, I suggest you stop shrieking in the library. Hermione, darling, buddy, lead the way."
She tried - she really did - but conducting anything through air that was cold and so thick was difficult. Ultimately, they all sat reading quietly on their own. Hermione was torn in three directions: her notes, Theo, (stiff as a board and chewing his tongue,) and Neville, because he had around a hundred questions about water charms.
xxx
On her way down for supper, Hermione encountered Theo and Luna at the top of the grand staircase. She was whispering fervently as she held his face in her hands. Then, with a quick kiss on his mouth, she left. He remained standing there, frowning at the tops of his shoes.
Hermione went to him at once.
"Theo," she begged, "What's wrong?"
He gave her the same pleading look as before, but she must've come across as considerably less amenable so he sighed. "Draco's gone to visit Lucius again. And you know me. I'm a pathological worrier."
"Oh," she squeaked.
"Yeah. I'm going to stand outside McGonagall's office and wait for him to come back... should be any time now. I'll see you later."
Hermione gave his arm a squeeze as he went by. Then she went down to the Great Hall. She sat, as usual, next to Ginny, and helped herself to food as usual. She could scarcely eat any of it.
The Forbidden Forest glittered like a quadrillion-faceted emerald. Sunlight glanced off leaves that lightly fluttered in the morning breeze.
See what delights in sylvan scenes appear!
Descending Gods have found Elysium here.
Hermione walked down a corridor at a gentle pace, admiring nature every time it made an appearance, framed perfectly within large arches. She had successfully performed non-verbal human transfiguration ten times in a row, and there was still plenty of time before she was due in the dungeons for Potions. She'd been gifted a short breather, and rather than filling it with some more revision, she'd decided to take a stroll. Theo would approve.
The air wafting in through the open panes smelt warm and sugary, like mum's clothes after she'd spent the day outside. Hermione was especially fond of hugging her in those instances. It was the kind of weather that compelled dad to make lemonade six times a day. He'd take her to the park to fly a kite, and they'd come home to find mum walking barefooted through the lawn, watering her precious flowerbeds–
When she first spotted him at the end of the passageway, she felt he might blind her. He was practically glowing, stark against the dark grey and brown stone behind him. He was leaning forward with his arms crossed and resting on the balustrade, staring outside and evidently lost in thought.
Hermione approached him with slow, measured steps. She was simultaneously bracing herself, going over her words in her head, and pulling out The Pickwick Papers from her bag. It was remarkable that she didn't stumble.
She did, however, make quite an infernal stomp stomp stomping racket as she walked, and, quite unsurprisingly, that grabbed his attention. She was forced to cover a good distance while he watched her, hobbling as she was with one hand in her bag and hair flying about in the wind.
She was completely flustered by the time she was near enough to speak to him. He was all coolly blank and unruffled, staring at her without bothering to fully turn her way. She breathed in once, for courage, and immediately registered something sharp, woody, and mildly citrusy that was not just the summer air. It was better.
Oh, just get this over with.
She held out the book like a blessed offering and said, "Look. ...Draco. I apologise for what I said that morning."
Because she was forcing herself to properly face him, she had the singular pleasure of witnessing the way his appearance changed. He looked from the book to her face in rapid succession. His eyebrows climbed up and his mouth curled into a wickedly amused smirk. He twisted just a fraction, so only one of his elbows was resting on the railing.
"Palms up... Calling me by my first name... what is this Granger – some sort of psychological ploy?"
Yes. "No!"
"A pitifully obvious one."
Hermione's entire face was burning, and she just could not meet his eye anymore. She thrust the book at him, (thankfully he accepted it before it could fall to the floor,) and turned to the grounds.
"Oh look!" she exclaimed and pointed at Sprout who was tending to a few shrubs behind the greenhouses, "Have you ever seen a more fitting Demeter?"
She laughed when he did, pretending that it was aimed at her quip and not at her. It was a piss-poor attempt.
"And there goes Hephaestus, I suppose?"
She chanced a glance at him from the corner of her eye to find that he too was peering down at the grounds. She followed his gaze and found Hagrid, dragging a sack full of... something... from the forest to his hut.
"Oh dear god, no," she proclaimed, "I really don't fancy placing him in a forge, surrounded by fire and dangerous implements."
"Ha! You're right," he guffawed, "Stupid, lumbering oaf would burn the place down in seconds."
"Don't call him that!" she snapped, all at once peeved. She also felt a stab of guilt; she hadn't been to see Hagrid in ages.
"You said it first, not me!" Malfoy countered snootily, "He's the epitome of incompetence–"
"He's not incompe–"
"For fuck's sake. You have to admit he's a lousy teacher. I can't believe McGonagall let him continue. Makes you wonder if she has any business calling herself Minerva."
Hermione didn't want to fight with him again, so she didn't dispute his assertion. Also... she rather agreed with him. There was no reason besides blind loyalty and sentimentality to pick Hagrid over Grubbly-Plank.
"Professor Vector would be a suitable Athena, wouldn't she?" she mused with renewed amiability.
"Eh, I suppose," he granted.
She stole another glance: He was staring straight ahead, squinting slightly against the glare. It was just so weird standing beside him like that, having a daft but reasonably cheery conversation. He seemed at ease, and she felt – well, at that moment she was utterly bemused – but before, for a moment, she'd been entertained and perfectly... okay.
Holy shit, this was MALFOY. Not for the first time, she was engaging in a casual and enjoyable conversation with MALFOY. It was Malfoy who turned to regard her at her sudden silence, quirking a brow, all curious and pleasant –
"Filch could be Hephaestus." She blurted out, "I mean, he... limps about."
"Why not? I'm sure he's secretly capable of fashioning the most impressive and exquisite artillery."
"You never know."
"I agree. He's definitely a man of many hidden talents. He's got that air about him."
She dipped her head as she laughed, and when she looked up again, he had resumed his perusal of the world outside, albeit with a small, crooked smile.
"Pomfrey as Artemis?" he proposed.
"Yes. And Flitwick is Poseidon."
"Why?"
"Oh, I don't know," she shrugged, "My head is full of water charms."
She watched as a tiny bracket appeared at the corner of his mouth. "Then there's Hermes–"
"Ludo Bagman."
He laughed at that, out loud and everything, and once again she was sucked into a vortex of 'what?!' and gobsmackedness.
"A long time ago, I would have thought Snape was Hephaestus, but now I think of him as Janus, the two-faced one."
She said that without thinking, so caught in the moment. His face fell like a flame that had been doused and she could have kicked herself had both her feet not been lodged firmly in her mouth.
With his new, regrettable grimness he mumbled, "If my father is to be believed, I am the two-faced one."
Was she meant to have heard that?
"I'm sure you know better than to believe what your father says by now," she retorted in a voice as low as his had been.
He grimaced. With an exasperated, almost disgusted sigh he pushed away from the arch and started striding down the corridor.
"Wha – Malfoy?"
"Potions," he grunted by way of explanation, without looking back.
She got moving as well, but her accompanying sigh was resigned and deflated. What an unfortunate turn of events. Again.
On arriving at the dungeons, Malfoy was instantly assailed by Mandy who looked just about as happy as she had in the library the day before. Hermione skittered over to where Theo, Luna, and Ginny were standing.
"Where've you been?" Ginny asked.
She forced herself to smile and replied, "Took a brief, rejuvenating turn around the castle. Looked outside at the birds and trees. Didn't think about the N.E.W.T.s even once."
"Good girl," Theo cheered.
They filled into the classroom, taking their places as the blooming god of crystallised pineapple bombarded them with an affable chant of come in, come in. He looked upon them rather indulgently with his round, protruding eyes.
"Just a little over a month before we bid each other farewell!" he cried, "I must admit, you all have won a special place in my heart. Yes, yes, very special indeed."
He wasn't bothered at all by the fact that most of the class seemed revolted by that prospect.
"Now, while the rest of you prepare a quick Occulus potion, I have a special assignment for my top five students. Ms. Granger – but of course – Ms. Patil, Mr. Goldstein, Ms. Bones, and Mr. Malfoy... if you will make your way to this corner table here."
They did, slothfully as their path was impeded by a very slow moving, bulldozer of a man. He'd set up a long, rectangular table with five large cauldrons. Hermione claimed a corner seat with her back to the wall. She caught Theo and Ginny's eyes as she sat, and they both pulled different but equally silly faces at her.
Padma took the seat next to her and they exchanged a smile. At the edge of her vision, two seats down on the opposite side, Malfoy was dancing his fingers along the edge of the table.
"Excellent, excellent," Slughorn beamed, "I'm sure you are simply dying to know what I have planned for you!" He produced a parchment from his waistcoat pocket, (Hermione couldn't believe there was room enough in there for his hand,) and created five duplicates of it with a flick of his wand.
"These," he explained, "Are instructions for brewing a Repleo draught – the most powerful replenishing potion in existence. There's never enough at Mungo's because it's notoriously difficult to make. Requires extreme precision, you see. Brew it successfully and your examiners will award you an outstanding without a second's hesitation."
Hermione grabbed her parchment with no little zeal, full of the heady exhilaration that comes with a new, unexpected challenge. The ingredient list was vast – thirty items in absurdly exact amounts. The potion would take a month to prepare. She looked around her, thrilled, hoping to find someone to share her enthusiasm. She didn't have to look too far – Padma appeared as keen as she was. Anthony, steadfastly team Boot, refused to acknowledge her, and Susan was still going through the instructions.
The first order of business was to extract the juice of sixteen and a half boom berries. A tricky task, as they were fond of exploding when poked the wrong way. She stopped after five, to flex her fingers, and to edge away from Padma who was softly cursing at the dangerous sounds emitting out of her berries.
"You're squeezing the sides when you cut it," Malfoy muttered suddenly, "Don't do that."
"How else do I get it to stay in place?" Padma wailed.
"Like this – make an L with your hand... yeah, nestle the berry between your palm and thumb. Good, now press down with the tip of your knife – there you go then."
"Wow! Thanks, Malfoy!"
"Sure," he shrugged.
Hermione picked up a berry to test his method as well: It took the burden off her cramping fingers completely. Wow, indeed. She looked up just in time to catch him watching her attempt.