A/N: Long list of people to thank today - thanks to atoumatoutou, leilanecris, SnowMonkey583, cassie2000, azakiel, Ajhtrumpet, Kmustard6013, lenanraz, & Emmiloubob for follows/favorites, & to leilanecris, carrie76, Thrisha, & Amanda for the reviews! I appreciate them all, really.

Chapter 18, here we go! I've had at least part of this in my head for a while - I'll be the first to admit I'm a bit of a Shakespeare nerd (although I've never read The Winter's Tale). As always, JKR owns everything important, & all wand-related info comes from Pottermore. Please R&R, & enjoy! :)

"You, my dear Granger, are full of surprises," Draco said as they made themselves comfortable in the common room after dinner.

Hermione laughed and accepted the mug of cocoa he offered her. Even though the holidays were over, the eighth years couldn't resist the stuff, and the house elves had started bringing it up before any of them even had a chance to ask.

"I try," she replied. "Can't be everything you expect all the time, now can I?"

"Granger, please," Draco said, "the day you're anything anyone 'expects' will be the day flobberworms become interesting – which means it's never going to happen."

"I…well, thanks, I suppose. And thank you, really, for this." She tapped the slender piece of wood lying on the couch next to her hip. "I don't know how you did it, and you don't have to tell me, but it does mean a lot."

"Obviously, judging by that lovely little display you put on this afternoon." Draco stretched his legs out and leaned back into his chair, blowing gently across the liquid in his mug before taking another sip. For a second, he looked utterly relaxed, then he suddenly yelped and nearly dumped the cocoa all over himself as something leaped into his lap.

"What the hell…"

"Crookshanks!" Hermione scolded, "that wasn't very nice of you!"

"Crookshanks?" Draco asked faintly. The cat – was it a cat? It seemed entirely too big – was staring up at him with enormous yellow eyes.

"That's his name – he's mine."

"It – he's – yours?" The creature blinked once, nudged Draco's wrist with his nose, and gently flexed his claws. Chuckling inwardly at the uncomfortable look on her classmate's face, Hermione got off the couch and hoisted her pet off Draco's lap. After settling back into her seat, she allowed Crookshanks to curl up on her feet, where he purred affectionately while she scratched his ears.

"Do you not like cats?" she asked softly. Draco couldn't seem to take his eyes off Crookshanks, as if he expected him to pounce if he dared turn away.

"I – no, I don't have a problem with cats, not at all," he said quickly, "but there's no way you can tell me that thing is merely a cat."

"No, he's not," Hermione agreed, laughing slightly again. "I don't really know his exact mix, but he's definitely part Kneazle at least." Crookshanks flicked his tail proudly, as if he could sense that his mistress was talking about him.

"Ah…" Kneazles, Draco had heard of – they were extremely intelligent, loyal to their owners, and uncannily good at sniffing out unsavory characters. "But aren't Kneazles roughly the same size, or even smaller, than most cats?"

"Yes, they are. Like I said, I don't know what else he is – but I've had him since right before third year, and he's been far more than just a pet since then. He was the first to figure out that Scabbers – Ron's rat, you know – was actually Peter Pettigrew, and he was quite fond of Sirius." Her eyes clouded over a bit as she said this final name.

"I think I'd be more than a bit freaked out if I realized I'd been sharing my quarters with an illegal-Animagus backstabber for three years," Draco said, taking another sip of his drink.

"Longer," Hermione countered. "He'd been with the Weasleys for over a decade by that point." She shuddered at the memory of the short, balding wizard she'd first met in the Shrieking Shack. "Anyway, yes, this is Crookshanks. Harry and Ron finally found his hiding place just in time to give him back at Christmas, so now I have both my cat and my wand. Life is good." She smiled brightly.

"Indeed." Draco stretched out again now that he knew Crookshanks was content to stay where he was. "So, Granger-"

"Hermione." When he looked at her, she raised her eyebrows pointedly.

"Alright, fine then. Her-my-oh-knee." He purposely stressed each syllable in an almost sing-song tone, then frowned.

"What is it?" Hermione asked him.

"I just…don't think I've ever done that before," he said.

"What, called me by my given name? No, I don't think you have," she replied, sounding faintly amused. "Was it really so difficult?"

"Terribly. Don't expect me to do it often." He paused. "What kind of a name is 'Hermione,' anyway? It's rather…unique."

"Says the one who's named after a constellation," she muttered.

"Hey! I'll have you know that's a fine upstanding Black family tradition," he retorted.

"Yes, yes," she said dismissively. "I knew Sirius and spent a significant amount of time in his house fifth and sixth year, remember? I've seen the Black family tapestry – constellations and stars all over the place. And if you must know," she continued, "my parents named me after a character in a play, by a Muggle called William Shakespeare."

"Ah, there we go," Draco said. "Shakespeare. Brilliant. So what's your middle name then, Juliet?" His tone was teasing, and the firelight danced off his eyes as he grinned at her.

"No, it's – wait a minute. How do you know who Shakespeare is?" Hermione asked incredulously.

"Granger, when was the Statute of Secrecy introduced?"

"1692, but-"

"And when did Shakespeare live?" he interrupted.

"1564 to 1616, but-"

"Exactly. Trust you to know the exact dates, by the way." He smirked and winked at her before continuing. "Now, if you'll recall from History of Magic, pre-Statute, wizards mingled with Muggles quite freely, and those with means supported Muggle endeavors as freely as those of their kin. The Malfoys were actually some of the most ardent supporters of this practice, and though we admittedly changed our tune completely when the Statute was introduced, we still give credit where credit is due."

"'Changed your tune,' indeed," Hermione snorted. "But you do have a point, I suppose. And if you must know, it's Jean."

"What?"

"My middle name is Jean. After my great-grandmother – she died before I was born, but she and my mum were very close. Hermione is a character in The Winter's Tale, which I guess isn't as well known as some of Shakespeare's other works, if you're not an aficionado. My parents thought they were being clever by giving me an unusual name."

"Fair enough. Juliet doesn't suit you anyway – you're not the pathetically tragic heroine type."

"I try not to be," Hermione agreed. "What's yours, then? No, wait – don't tell me." She held up her hand to emphasize the request. "It's Lucius, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is. Been stealing a look at my birth certificate or something, Granger?"

"No, of course not," she scoffed. "Just an educated guess – it seems to be a trend in the Wizarding world that everybody's named after someone else, particularly firstborns. All the other firstborns – or, in Ginny's case, I suppose, the eldest child of a given sex – that I know are named after their parents, so it stood to reason that you were too."

"Merlin, Gran-Hermione, is there anything you don't notice?"

"Do you want me to answer that question?" she asked innocently.

"No."

"I didn't think so. So, the great Draco Malfoy, Pureblood extraordinaire, knows who Shakespeare is. What else don't I know about you?" Hermione propped one foot up on her knee and reclined into the cushions, twirling her wand idly between her fingers.

"If we're going with the 'Pureblood' vein – no pun intended, of course – then plenty," he answered. "Pureblood tradition requires that children be able to dance, play an instrument – the piano, in my case – make small talk, be a gracious host, greet others properly according to their social stations, and survive dinners involving more than one fork. As a nod to my familial origins, I speak more-than-passable French, and my father taught me to successfully manage investment portfolios, although I find the task incredibly boring. That good enough for you?"

"A bit generic, but it'll do. I wish I could speak French – I learned a bit when I was younger, and Mum and Dad took me to France on holiday the summer before third year, but I didn't really have a reason to keep up with it. I don't envy you the etiquette lessons, although I must say, it's a nice change from Ron's appalling lack of manners." Draco couldn't help but snort at this, but at the look Hermione shot him, he didn't comment. Instead, he cast around for a change of subject, and his eyes landed on Hermione's wand.

"What's your wand made of?" he asked. She gave him a quizzical look.

"Vine and dragon heartstring, why?"

"Ah, right. Ollivander mentioned it when I went to his shop – over break, you know, to figure out if that was your wand – but then he gave me a rather intense lecture about my own wand, and I forgot. Any idea what that particular combination means?"

"Sure. I looked it up ages ago, right after I first got the wand, in fact." She stopped twirling her wand and looked at it closely, her expression thoughtful. "Vinewood wands can sense good potential owners – mine emitted sparks the instant I walked into the shop, almost like it was calling out to me. Mr. Ollivander was very intrigued – he told me that vine wands generally matched with people with a 'greater purpose' who 'frequently astound those who know them best'. I suppose that fits – I mean, I did help defeat Voldemort, which I guess counts as a 'greater purpose,' and I certainly astounded Mum and Dad when they found out I was a witch."

"Don't forget you astounded Potter and Weasley, not to mention the rest of us, nearly every day of your Hogwarts career with your status as a veritable knowledge magnet," Draco added. She stuck her tongue out in response. "Very ladylike, Granger. You're right, though – the wood suits you. What about the core?"

"Dragon heartstring? It supposedly makes for the most powerful wands, as well as the most temperamental. I don't know about the temperamental bit – I've never had a problem with my wand – but they also bond strongly with their owners, which, I suppose, considering vinewood's tendency to do the same, makes me doubly connected to my wand." She paused and regarded it again fondly. "Regardless of what it is or isn't made of, I'm rather attached to it. Yours is quite a match as well, you know."

"And how would you know about that?" Draco asked her.

"Remember, we had your wand in our possession for over a month – we had Mr. Ollivander identify it, along with the other two we took from you, and, naturally, I was curious. I find it interesting that you, of all people, bonded with such a contradictory wand – hawthorn is as equally suited to curses as it is to healing, but unicorn cores resist the Dark Arts. Hawthorn wands work remarkably well for people with a conflicted nature or someone facing extreme turmoil – if that doesn't describe the last few years for you, I don't know what does – and that same wood works best for wizards with exceptional talent, which I can't deny also applies to you. Really remarkable how well the wand chooses the wizard."

"Really remarkable how you just told me nearly the exact same things Ollivander did, and you're not a wandmaker," Draco said, "but you're right. It's almost scary, in a way. How the hell can a wand recognize something like that in an eleven-year-old?"

"No idea," Hermione replied. "One of the great mysteries of life, I guess." She leaned her head backwards over the armrest and stretched her neck with a sigh before sitting back up again to look at him. "As enlightening as this whole discussion's been, I can't imagine any of it has to do with your original question."

"My original question?" Draco asked, looking perplexed.

"Yes – right before you went off about my name, you were going to ask me a question. What was it?" Draco was silent for a moment as he mentally rewound their conversation.

"Ah, I remember!" he said finally, snapping his fingers. "I just had a question about the Charms essay…"