See No Evil

A mix of roles... Potions Class
POV: Harry

"How did you know about the beozar, Potter?" he snarls menacingly at me, having somehow quietly backed me into a corner of the Potions classroom as we tidy up. I bare my teeth at Malfoy, pushing back against him with my hands and chest, warning him out of my personal space. My wand is at my worktable, and Ron's unable to meet my eyes, still trying not to retch over the monstrosity still bubbling in his cauldron. Hermione stopped looking at, and speaking to, me during class as soon as she caught sight of the textbook I still haven't managed to make myself get rid of.

The thing of it is, the Half-Blood Prince hadn't jotted down notes for today's lesson, which had been to come up with an antidote for most sorts of poisons. I'd been at a complete loss for most of the class, frantically searching through my usually reliable book, margins full of handwritten, scribbled notes. I'd only been able to seize onto one scrawled line just in the nick of time:

Just shove a beozar down their throat.

Then in desperation, I spent the last portion of the class trying to locate a beozar in the back cabinet.

To be perfectly honest, for the last few months, it felt good to finally be praised in Potions class and to watch Malfoy, and even Hermione, both easily the best in class, fail at the cooking up potions that I'm now so easily able to mix with the help of my handy crib notes. There is some power found in making high marks and it's satisfying to gloat and sneer at the ferret as he'd done so many times to me. It's the first time I've been able to claim such high academic honor in Potions. It doesn't occur to me that what I'm doing might be considered cheating, and that even the likes of Neville Longbottom's hazardous concoctions are more honest efforts than my own perfectly mixed ones.

Today had been the last straw, I knew it. I knew it as soon as I opened my palm holding the beozar and as soon as I heard Professor Slughorn's hearty laugh at what he saw as my cleverness. Slughorn had pocketed the beozar and, now, as I watch him pack it away in his teacher's case, I know I am losing the respect of my closest friends because of my weakness for this previously unknown power, a power Hermione and Malfoy had in spades - smarts.

So, having relatively little academic prowess myself, I'd, in desperation, presented something that looked like a prune to Slughorn, instead of doing my work as the rest of the class had done. To top it all off, I was awarded additional points purely for cheek. I watched the justifiable anger rise in both Hermione and Malfoy standing at opposite ends of the room, both stained with whatever putrid liquid had escaped from their stews

So, yes, I understand why Malfoy is challenging me now, but that doesn't mean I like it.

"I read it in the text, Malfoy," I cast a disdainful glance at his potion-sullied robes. "just as easily as you could have... and it looks like you didn't."

"The instructions were to mix a potion, Potter, not pull a goat's stone from a jar," he whispers menacingly. "But why am I not surprised you don't bother to follow proper protocol when you're given an easy opportunity to claim false personal glory?"

"You're one to talk, Malfoy. You buy your way into things all of the time."

"Hardly, chosen one," he scoffs, sarcastically drawing out the now all-too common moniker. "Following directions is what I do best. The rules simply happen to work in my favor. I'm able to play and win while staying within the parameters of the game. This, I suspect, is what annoys you so much about me. I don't need to disregard the rules because, frankly, it's unnecessary for me to do so. It's the same even for your friend, Granger, over there," he casually motions toward Hermione. "Neither of us have to cheat in order to pass our courses. She and I do our homework... And we both earn our just rewards." At his last few words, I register a barely noticeable sadness in his tone. His eyes reflect sorrow that I refuse to acknowledge seeing there.

"You've no idea what you're talking about, Ferret," I hiss angrily, focusing on the offense of him bringing her up in the conversation. "Hermione bends the rules when it's necessary."

"When it's necessary, really?" his voice is arrogant, condescending, "Oh, I understand, now. Granger justifies going against status quo for things like... Oh, let's see... Perhaps when it comes to protecting her friends? I'm sure she breaks rules in order to so generously allow you to use her brilliance to fight your cause? How about disregarding, even fighting against old wizarding traditions for the questionable rights of house-elves? You mean like those times, Potter?"

I'm startled by Malfoy's pointed questions, it appears he knows a lot about Hermione and may even admire her for the causes she's chosen to uphold. Dumbfounded, I let out a stuttered, "Y-yes."

While he speaks, Malfoy's head is in the cabinet and his face hidden from me by the door he holds open.

"Hmmm, I can see how bending the rules today, just as you did now, is quite comparable to the reasons Granger has for disregarding rules and directions. Come to think of it, Potter, she looks quite pleased with your selfless innovation."

I spare a quick glance over to her side of the room and find Hermione's fine features screwed in anger at me as Malfoy appears to have just innocently finished putting a bottle away.

Before leaving for his table the ferret throws a glance my way. There is just a touch of a loathsome sneer forming on his lips as he turns away.

For the first time ever in Malfoy's presence, I feel I deserve his utter disregard... that this time, he is in the right of things.

In the library stacks after class
POV: Hermione

"Why do you keep looking at me, Granger?"

I whip my gaze back down onto my blank parchment.

For the past few weeks, I've suspected that Malfoy's been sabotaging our combined efforts to fix the blasted cabinet. I can't fathom why he might want to keep it from working properly, but I also don't think he'll take kindly to my accusations or questioning about it.

I'd been contemplating confronting him today, but hesitate considering how awful he looks tonight. I hadn't even realized that I'd been staring until Malfoy caught me looking. I am worried, have been since spying on him in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. It isn't difficult to imagine he's had less sleep than me. I am able to see straight through the glamour charm that he's using to hide the incredibly dark half circles beneath his eyes. They are ones I imagine must mirror mine.

While thoughts of my non-Muggle heritage is enough to keep me up at night, it hardly compares to the shock of learning that I might very well be a long lost descendent of Salazar Slytherin, the niece of the vilest being known to walk the wizarding world. I'm in such denial that I refuse every opportunity to look at the Book of Wizarding Family Trees, even though there have been several times that Malfoy's offered to let me look at it in the library and the Room of Requirement.

My current excuse to avoid looking in the book is that Malfoy will undoubtedly be staring over my shoulder as I conduct the investigation into my biological past.

"You look like you haven't been sleeping, Malfoy," I say trying for apathetic, but turning to concern as soon as I look up to stare him squarely in the eye. "Or eating for that matter."

"You sound like my mother, Granger."

"Well," I gulp, now avoiding eye contact because his silvery orbs threaten to stare me right into the ground, "Are we right?... Your mother and I, I mean?"

I spy him looking as if he is about to offer me a sharp retort, but then, he seems to think better of it and offers me a wan smile instead.

"I haven't been sleeping, perhaps I've lost my appetite because of it. I suppose you know something about that," he sighs, wearily running his hand against his face before studying me again. "You've been sleeping a lot when we're together, Granger, here in the library. Which means you haven't been resting properly, either. Even if that's all you're getting, that's more sleep than I've had in months."

I nod, then look across the table at him. In a soft whisper I ask, "why?"

He looks at me, then pulls his gaze away to stare at the quill he's twirling in his hand. He carefully places it down, alongside his parchment and eases back into his chair. He steeples his fingertips together and stares at his hands. I watch him curiously. He looks like he's having an internal shouting match with himself. Beneath his blond fringe, his forehead is furrowed and he's pressing his fingertips together so they are white at the tips. It seems he places the most opposing force at his thumbs. Interestingly enough, the rest of him looks absolutely languid, almost arrogantly so. I wonder at this posture, resolute to try it in the privacy of my own room later, just to see what it feels like.

"For whatever reason," Malfoy replies, with careful nonchalance, "you seem to trust me enough to allow you undisturbed rest when you are resting your eyes."

I know he understands exactly what I'd meant by my question, that I'd been asking after him and his health. But for whatever reason, Malfoy decided against answering honestly. I notice his hands are lax on the worktable again, laying lightly against his schoolwork.

"You did take an oath to protect me, Malfoy, if I recall," I state, staring at my own quill. His eyes are on me... unreadable. I sigh and reluctantly admit, "I suppose I allow myself to be vulnerable in your presence because I trust you won't hurt me in my slumber."

I hear him shifting as I hastily add, "Thank you for not asking me any questions about what's been keeping me up at night, Malfoy. In retrospect, I should offer you the same courtesy."

He appears extremely uncomfortable when I dare to look at him again.

"You do realize, Malfoy, I took that same oath," I say with kindness in my voice. "... to protect you, too, I mean. You could... ahhhh.... rest your eyes, while I stay up this time."

"Why?" He seems genuinely puzzled.

"I need to study anyway," I shrug, hoping he can't detect the flutter of nerves in my voice. "We're here. You look like you need sleep... and..."

"... and you're a bloody interfering Gryffindor," he adds quietly, almost teasingly.

"Yes, I suppose so," I nod, with a close-lipped smile.

He seems to consider my offer. As he does, I go back to pretending to study my Arithmancy. From the corner of my eye, I watch him carefully settle his books around him, like a little blockade.

I think randomly of what he might have been like as a mischievous little boy with his playmates, maybe making something similar in banks of snow before a snowball fight, or with his toys at home, preparing for a make-believe battle. I hear him clear his throat and I look up.

From over his little half-wall, a familiar book appears.

"Why don't you have a look, then," Malfoy's bodiless voice says. His offer is soft, faltering, as if he's already prepared to doze off as I lift the book from his hand. "I think I will rest my eyes, Granger."

"Tha-"

"Don't thank me, Bookworm. I owe you," his breath is starting to sound as it did in the Room of Requirement when he so rudely drifted off to sleep during my mini-tirade. "I don't like being in your debt, Granger. Take a look at it, in relative privacy, and then we're square."

I look over to him and find myself staring at his tower of Sixtth Year advanced textbooks with only part of the top of his blond head buried in his arms visible behind it. I sigh, and pile my own books up next to his, completely ensconcing him in a makeshift fort of bindings and parchment pages.

Running my fingers across the cover of the Malfoy's magical book, I think about the family tree I'd most like to see. I carefully open the page to a blank sheet of paper, grabbing up my wand. I look around me to discover I am quite alone in the downstairs library stacks. There's no sound other than the pounding of my own beating heart and the soft rise and fall of Malfoy's breath.

I place the tip of my wand at the barely visible line and repeat Malfoy's words, ones he used in the Room of Requirement.

"I deeply desire to see…

one particular family tree."

A beautiful small tree unfurls on the parchment and fades to lie in background, beckoning me to continue. I oblige.

"Book of Wizarding Family Trees, show me the lineage of Aiden Mustelidae, please."

I don't know what to expect, really. A blank tree, save one gleaming, golden name isn't exactly what I thought might appear: Caroline Mustelidae nèe Geonicy. Next to it is the name I'd spoken, Aiden Mustelidae is carefully drawn by an invisible hand.

I watch the golden leaf between them, produce an offshoot vine that grabs hold of both names. I notice a different mark appear below the couple's joined names, a sort of twig-like curiosity, not coiling. I wonder at it before placing my wand against the leafless crooked branch. I speak the name I've tried so hard to release from my memory, the name that has turned my whole world upside down.

Mustelidae, Emmanuelle Senguis

And there it is… and black it remains.

A glimmering water droplet suddenly falls on the page, surprising me as it shimmers against the M in this girl's surname.

Tears.

My own, flowing down my face.

Tears of hope? Maybe that this has been some terrible mistake? Is she a Muggle? As muggle as the parents I've only known?

Relief, perhaps?! That maybe Emmanuel is their daughter, after all?! Perhaps she is really a squib, the Mustelidae's own daughter, registered with the Ministry?

Which would mean that I am... I am... the Hermione Granger as I've always been... Muggleborn... Mudblood, to the annoying prat over the wall of textbooks... daughter of dentists and bibliophile extraordinaire.

There is only one way to make sure. With a shaky hand, I place my wand against my supposed birthmother's name and whisper, "Hermione Granger."

With unspeakable sadness, and unqualified horror, I watch my own name appear through a blur a tears. The names of my birthparents are blotches of ink in the haze of my gaze as I focus in on the fancy cursive H, with swirls and loops, appear next to Emmanuelle's. My name is pushed to the bottom left of my birthmother's. I absently notice some discrepancy with the positioning of my name considering how it should technically be above that of the adopted daughter's but I don't think too deeply about it. I doubt there's a reason for it other than for the abnormality of Emmanuelle's name being in the spot that should be reserved for my own.

I think no more of it because I am mesmerized as my name continues to appear on the parchment. I softly suck in my breath as the rest of my name slowly appears. The script is both beautiful and terrorizing.

E...

R...

M...

I feel a soft touch at my shoulder and with a jerk I slam the book shut.

"Hermione, are you all right?"

I whip my face up to find the face of a friend.

Ron.

"Hermione. You're weeping into that book. Why are you crying?!"

"Shhhhhhhhhhhh!" I warn instinctively putting my finger to my mouth, feeling the tears, now free-flowing, gathering at the point of my chin.

"He's sleeping!" I whisper, lowering my gaze and nudging my head toward the blockade of textbooks. Ron, who is standing beside me, cautiously peers over.

"Is that... Malfoy?!" he asks.

Funny, he doesn't seem as shocked as I imagine he could be.

Abashed, I nod, suddenly aware that this situation has the potential to turn quite ugly very fast.

"Yes, he finally fell asleep," I reply as calmly as I can muster, my face averted. "He needs rest, Ron... please..."

When there is no response, I turn to look at my ginger-haired friend, reluctant to see his reaction to my plea, finding myself more than surprised at his ready acceptance of the peculiar situation. I am even further shocked to see Ron offer me a soft smile as my gaze meets his. His hand is still gentle on my shoulder as he quietly eases himself into the chair beside mine.

"Did Malfoy make you cry, too, Hermione?" he asks concerned.

"No, Ron," I sigh. "It's Harry who's decided that making me cry is his lot in life. Considering it's Malfoy," I motion again towards the sleeping blond, "In comparison, he's actually been quite decent. It's this book... ah... I just learned something."

Ron shakes his head, teasing quietly, "Don't tell me you're so overjoyed with your new knowledge that it's moved you to tears."

I offer him a quiet, watery laugh and shake my head, no.

"It's really disturbing information, Ron," I admit, reluctantly after a brief period of silence, "and I'm not entirely sure I'm ready to talk about it yet."

"Have you been talking to anyone about what's bothering you, Hermione?"

I notice the hurt in his troubled survey of me and the purposeful way he's keeping himself from looking across the table. I bristle slightly.

"If you're meaning, Malfoy, no," I say shortly. Glancing quickly at the tower of books, I realize that though he's out of sight, the Ferret could be eavesdropping just as easily as I had with him and Myrtle.

"But he knows something, otherwise..." Ron looks pointedly at the book in my hands.

"Otherwise, what, Ron?" I hiss through clenched teeth.

There's a hesitancy about his mannerisms, I notice guilt, in his posture. I hasten to look down at Ron's hands... and gasp.

Without saying another word, and with great haste, I cast my wand around us and then toward Malfoy, incanting, "Muffliato!" I didn't want to wait until my traitorous friend and I found a private place, nor could I risk Malfoy listening in.

My charm left Ron and me in a fairly private bubble in which I know I am able to yell if I like.

"How long, Ron?!" I demand with a shriek, pushing out of my chair and away from his reach.

"Hermione! What are you going on abou--"

"Your hands and the bottom half of your legs are invisible, Ronald! I. AM. NOT. AN. IMBECILE! Don't treat me as if I am! How long have you been using Harry's cloak to spy on me?!" Now standing, I can cast a stray glance at the top of Malfoy's head. He still appears as though he's asleep.

I watch the tensing of Ron's muscles at his neck and shoulders, made quite visible due to his indulgence in his favorite sport. He's clearly bothered that I'd caught him, but the one thing about Ron is that I know he'd never lie to me.

"Does it matter, Hermione?"

Nor will he offer me the absolute truth if he can help himself from getting hit with a bat bogey hex.

"How long?!" I repeat menacingly.

I watch him sigh, steeling himself, weighing his options. Suddenly, Ron slumps down in his chair and finally gives me my answer.

"It's been nearly as long as Harry's believed that Malfoy wears the Dark Mark," he says begrudgingly.

I let out a small cry. That's longer than than the time I've been working with Malfoy on the cabinet! What had Ron heard? What had he seen? Has he been in the Room of Requirement with us? Does he know what I'd been looking at in this book?

"Harry wanted me to follow Malfoy," he continues with his loud excuses, still not wanting to approach me. "Then, Snape gave you that assignment and I couldn't very well spy on Malfoy without spying on you, could I? I thought of telling you, but..."

"But what, Ron?"

"Well, at first I thought, what's the harm? I saw that you were alone with Malfoy, a lot. I figured I'd just, you know, stay around and make sure he wasn't being cruel to you, that you were safe. Besides, you know my marks, I need to be reading in the librar--"

"Covered in an invisibility cloak, spying on me!?!" I shout, exasperated.

"Hermione... please..."

"And when you discovered that I would come to no harm, Ron? What about then? Why didn't you stop then?"

Ron squirms under my scrutiny.

"I... I saw how Malfoy was treating you and.... well... he made you smile, Hermione," his arm movements inform me that he's worrying his hands beneath the cloak. "I was curious. Neither Harry or I have been able to coax a smile from you all year!"

I ignore his excuses.

"What do you know? What have you discovered by spying on me?" I demand, feeling my eyes shining again, not in sadness, but in absolute frustration at the violation.

"Only that I think the ferret fancies you, and that you and he are both bothered by something that's making each of your glamour charms, which are stellar, by the way, no longer effective," Ron replies with some strength in his voice. "What's going on, Hermione? Why is Malfoy... so nice... to you when he thinks no one is looking? Why do you both look like you haven't slept or eaten for weeks? Are you secretly dating, Malfoy?! Is that why you both are so terribly distressed? Is the secret too much to bear?"

"What?! Ron?! Are you insane?" I gasp, reddening at the thought of me and Malfoy as a couple being voiced aloud. "Secretly dating, Malfoy? Honestly, Ron," I whisper shaking my head and lowering my wand.

My best friend leans back, likely comforted that I won't hex him now. "Hermione, Malfoy's just... ah... well... he treats you..."

"I know," I say, deciding to mercifully interrupt Ron's bumbling. "I treat him with kindness, too. Is that such a sin? If it's any consolation, I don't do it very often. This is one of those rare times. We still can't seem to stop swiping at each other. But, we do have to work together until we complete Snape's assignment, and I've decided it's just better if we're on speaking terms so we can accomplish it."

Ron peers at me quizzically, motioning for me to return to my seat. I move to sit and stare again at the fortress of books in front of me.

"Why don't you tell me what you're working on, Hermione?" Ron says. "Will that ease some of your worry? Maybe I can even help?"

I turn to look at him doubtfully.

"Oh, right," his blue eyes, downcast, I know he thinks I'm disparaging his brainpower, or what he believes is a lack of.

"It's not that, Ron," I say, pleading for him to understand my inability to explain. "I just can't tell you."

"Can't or won't, Hermione?"

"Can't, Ron," I say, staring into his eyes meaningfully.

"Earlier, you two were talking about an oath to protect one another," he says half to himself. "Is that it?"

"I can't tell," I gasp frantically.

Already I feel the expected, unwanted desire to launch myself at Malfoy and confess my deep, hidden feelings for him. I grip the bottom of my chair hoping that Ron won't continue with this game of twenty questions.

I feel Ron take careful survey of my posture.

"OK, how about I guess then, if you can't say?" He taps his now visible finger against his mouth as he stares at me for my response. "You're under some sort of spell because of this oath... and every time we talk about it, you're doing everything you can to stop yourself from doing something."

I'm grasping the top of the worktable now, and digging my heels into the ground. There's nothing more I want to do than to wake Malfoy up and tell him I've been thinking of him non-stop since he'd taken the time to get the book for me. As I contemplate telling Ron everything, I find myself wishing desperately to tell Malfoy about some of my subconscious, most embarrassing, more romantic daydreams in which he plays the ultimate romantic hero.

Ugh!

I'm shaking in my effort to keep myself from standing and waking Malfoy as I admit, with only a nod of my head, to Ron that this spell is what's keeping me from explaining everything.

Ron places a heavy hand on my shoulder as he looks between me and the pile of textbooks in the middle of the table.

"I'm guessing that if you tell me what's going on, you'll be forced to do something with... or to... Malfoy?"

I send him a pleading look. I can feel the tears of frustration welling again.

"And you don't want to do it, whatever it is that you now feel compelled to do with Malfoy. Is this why you can't tell me?"

I look away, gritting my teeth, feeling the bunching of my biceps as I forcibly keep my body in my seat. Ron's hand, thankfully, is still helping to press me down.

"OK, Hermione, I get it."

I sigh, thankful to feel the stress in my muscles dissipate as Ron eases off the interrogation. I let out a ragged breath.

"So, if you can't tell me, Hermione," Ron continues as soon as I get comfortable in my seat again. "Will you still let me use Harry's cloak so I can find out for myself?"

I swallow, thinking about how this might affect my interactions with Malfoy, knowing that Ron might be a silent, invisible witness. I look doubtfully at my friend, so much more reasonable now that Harry's gone completely barmy. I look at the tower of books in front of me and then I gaze soulfully at Ron. It would be so good to have a friend as my confidante again. I press my lips together and I feel my brow furrow as I contemplate the possible effects my decision might have. I take a deep breath.

"I have to tell you what happened over the summer, Ron," I whisper, "But not here, not now."

I watch him nod carefully. "Were you... hurt, Hermione?"

I nod, but my eyes widen as a horrified expression takes hold of Ron's face.

"What?!" I meet his alarmed gaze and suddenly realize what he may be thinking. "Oh, no, Ron! Not hurt like that, not physically. It's just that I discovered something life altering about myself and I'm scared. Really scared and confused. You know how much I don't like not having all the information about something. Well, I have to process what I've learned first before I can talk to you about it. OK?"

"OK, Hermione, but you know I can be with you even while you're doing that."

"I know, Ron," I say, grabbing hold of his hand. "And I thank your for that offer. I promise to tell you when I'm ready. And, I'll let you use the cloak, alright? But you have to tell me when you are going to follow me. Will you agree?"

I watch him nod reluctantly. I nod back solemnly. He pulls me into a rib-cracking hug to seal the deal, and when he releases me, I point my wand at the stack of books.

"Finite Incantantum," I whisper.

I turn to look at Ron, but he is gone.

I return to my Arithmancy and wait for Malfoy to wake.

"Granger," Malfoy's gravelly voice greets me an hour or so later. I look up to see him easing an opening in his makeshift fort.

"Malfoy," I reply, looking down to scribble my work onto my parchment.

"Thanks, I needed that."

"Ditto," I reply, handing the family tree book to him. He looks at me quizzically. I don't think he understands my Muggle reply.

"Did you discover what you needed?"

"Yes," I answer, offering nothing else as I look down to close my Defense against Dark Arts textbook.

"Well, Granger?"

I shake my head, eyes still downcast, not wanting to explain. I finally glance up to catch him studying me as I continue to refuse to speak.

"Actually, I've discovered something, too," he says quietly, standing to stretch and put his books away.

"What's that?" I inquire casually, following suit with packing up, but keeping him in sight from the corner of my eye.

"There's some things I need to tell you and I don't think you're going to like it," he replies, looking down to arrange his books in his bag and stopping to look up at me squarely.

"What is it?" I say, my hands stilling on the buckle of my bag.

"Let's wait until next week to discuss it, OK?"

"Why can't you tell me now, Malfoy?"

"Why can't you tell me why you need the book, Granger?"

I stop my movements for a minute, stunned somehow that he would ask. I, at last, make myself shake my head at him.

"I'll show you next week, Bookworm, OK?" he offers, almost gently.

"That sounds fine, Malfoy," I acquiesce quietly, understanding his reluctance to share before preparing to deal with the repercussions.

"Things are even between us now, Granger," he formalizes, ducking his head down to at last snap up his bag. "But, what I'm going to show you and ask of you... I think... It's not going to make you think very kindly of me."

"When did it begin to matter what a Mudblood like me thinks of the likes of you?" I answer with a quiet, nearly teasing scoff.

I watch him struggle for an appropriate comeback.

"...and besides," I add with a wry smile, interrupting his fumbling thoughts. " You've never claimed kindness, Malfoy. Remember?"

"Touchè" he says with a hint of a smirk. "I'll see you tomorrow, Bookworm."

"Tomorrow, then, Ferret," I reply.

I feel a the tug of a smile playing on my lips as I turn to climb the stairs to the library's main study room.