The Harry Potter universe and its characters are the sole property of J. K. Rowling. By using them below, I am in no way claiming ownership.

Hermione's hands ached. She had been moving around the Gryffindor common room all evening, surveying students on their breakfast choices over the past few days. It was the only logical option to determine how big a problem Draco was going to have on his hands, at least until the love potion wore off. Based on Ginny's continued shunning of her, it seemed that there were definitely a few students still in the throes of Malfoy-lust.

Harry and Ron were the last on her list to survey, being the last to return from the grounds. The pair sat down on the sofa in front of the fire, Harry dumping a bag of soiled Quidditch robes onto the floor. She moved across to take the tweed armchair, manoeuvring her clipboard so she might write comfortably. 'I'm taking a survey...'

'Ugh, this isn't another SPEW thing, is it?' Ron interrupted.

'No, Ronald,' she narrowed her eyes. 'What have you two had for breakfast since Thursday?'

'The flower prank stopped me from eating anything on Thursday,' Harry said with a shrug. 'Yesterday? I had some pancakes with maple syrup.'

'And this morning?' Hermione asked, placing a cross against Harry's name.

'Scrambled egg and bacon.'

'Ron?'

'Um, a fried breakfast on Thursday. Fried breakfast Friday.' He paused for a moment to think, then nodded his head. 'And a fried breakfast this morning.' Hermione frowned.

'Did you have toast with your fried breakfast?'

'Well, no... it's a fried breakfast,' Ron replied, as if it were obvious. Clearly, it wasn't for Hermione. 'I had fried bread,' he explained.

'So neither of you had any toast from the table?' The pair stared back at her, slightly confused.

'Is there something going on?' Harry asked, intrigued.

'Oh, of course not.' Hermione waved her quill noncommittally. 'I just want to see how much bread the castle gets through. Goodnight.' She left the pair and headed up to her dorm. Ron glanced back at Harry,

'She's mental, that one.'

Draco's studying was interrupted as the door to his chamber opened, then closed itself. He was hardly surprised when the head and shoulders of Hermione appeared from thin air, floating besides him. She pouted over his shoulder at his work.

'You've got it wrong. They were never able to prove that Rasputin was treating the prince with wolfsbane.' Draco angled himself in his chair to face her.

'Tell that to the Great Wizards Council of 1918.'

'Their trial was inconclusive.'

'Only because the Bolshevik's killed his patient.'

'That was the Russian revolution, not Rasputin,' Hermione scoffed.

'No smoke without fire.'

'You can't write that. He was never charged.' Draco smiled, enjoying the effect that the debate was having on her.

'Doesn't mean he's innocent.' Hermione pursed her lips. 'Don't tell me how to do my homework, Granger, and I won't tell you how to do yours.' He moved his quill forward to point at her, brushing the exposed skin above the invisibility cloak. 'Stealing from Potter again, are we?' She narrowed her eyes and moved away, dropping the cloak on his bed. She was dressed in pyjamas once more, this time a blue cami-and-shorts set decorated with flittering Cornish pixies. Hermione sat down on the edge of the mattress, crossing her legs. Draco twisted fully, leaning back against his desk with a devil-may-care expression. 'To what do I owe the honour?'

'I may have made a mistake earlier.' She pouted. 'I found some useful information in the library. You were in there doing your homework, so I told you what I found.'

'You didn't tell me anything...'

'Exactly.' Hermione watched the realisation hit Draco.

'You told him,' he said in disbelief. 'You told him that we were onto him.' He shook his head. 'You couldn't tell it wasn't me?'

'You do realise you two look exactly the same,' she replied, annoyed at his tone. 'But perhaps I should have been able to tell the difference, fake-you is much nicer than the real you.' This silenced Draco and he stared down at the floor, pensive.

'What did you tell him?'

'He's not a him.'

'He's a she?' Draco asked, confused.

'No, Draco, he's a what. He's not alive. Nothing alive is capable of the magic I saw him use, or overcoming the ancient wards on the dormitories. He's a thing.'

'What kind of a thing?'

'I don't know,' she admitted. Draco sighed, dropping his quill onto the desk behind him.

'So I suppose this is another late-night study session?' Hermione shrugged,

'Two can work faster than one, even at your reading speed.'

'You're sleeping in your own bed this time,' he folded his arms. 'I'm not taking the floor again.' His tone of voice suggested a resigned anger at the situation, but in reality, he was secretly pleased.

Author's note: fried bread = eggy bread = French toast. Soak the bread in some egg then chuck it in the frying pan. Delicious.