"Harry, are you sure you've remembered all of Professor Snape's advice?"
"Hermione, look, just forget it —"
"If you're still having dreams, then maybe there's something he still needs to teach you. Something about subconscious occluding! Have you told him about the dreams?"
"It doesn't matter right now —"
"Of course it matters! You can't let him in your head, Harry; who knows what could happen —"
"Just — just leave it alone!" Hermione flinched at Harry's tone; if they hadn't been in the Great Hall, he probably would have shouted at her. Her heart sank as she watched her friend storm off, toast in hand.
Not my fault, she assured herself. She couldn't be to blame for his anger. And clearly someone had to remind him of the gravity of the situation, since he obviously didn't appreciate —
"Just let him be, Hermione, yeah?"
Hermione frowned and turned to Ginny who sat opposite. "But he —"
"He knows, Hermione. Trust me."
"But —"
"It's complicated, alright? Because he knows it's a bad thing, but it saved our dad, didn't it?" Ginny's voice broke a little and Hermione struggled to keep contact with her shining eyes. "He'll get over it faster if you leave him alone. I did." And then Ginny walked off, too.
Ron gave Hermione a helpless glance. Not popular this morning, are you?
Hermione looked into her goblet, ashamed. She'd forgotten about Ginny's encounter with Voldemort's subconscious. How much of that, she wondered, was similar to what Harry was going through now? Could it be just as dangerous?
We can't afford to wait for him to 'get over it!'
But, it seemed, there wasn't much choice.
The end of the world is getting nearer and nearer and there's nothing I can do.
She drank her pumpkin juice.
"Something the matter, Granger?"
Hermione looked at Draco and scowled. Where was Professor Snape? Why couldn't he hurry up and let them get on with it instead of leaving them to loiter in the corridor like this? She shifted her weight again, fingers anxiously drumming against her leg. Harry's prickliness had lingered all day and she'd be damned if she couldn't find some way to make this easier for all of them.
The door opened. Hermione followed Draco inside.
Snape stood before their usual bench; the silver cauldron and box of flowers sat waiting.
"You are both confident in your ability to brew Wolfsbane entirely on your own?"
They nodded.
"Then begin."
By the time Hermione donned her gloves, Snape had gone. She plucked a flower from the box and began the careful process of separating the petals while Malfoy did the same beside her.
"Careful, Granger; these flowers need a witch's gentle touch, not the aggressive handling you're currently giving them. Well," he added after a moment, "unless they've asked for it, I suppose."
She grit her teeth as she delicately traced the blade along the edge of the stem, feeling for its natural juncture. "Shut up, Malfoy. Or do you want me to make a mistake?"
"Oh, not at all. I was merely going to offer you some advice, as you seem… distressed."
"What advice could I possibly need from you?"
"Well, I just thought, seeing as our dear High Inquisitor is now personally supervising all lessons taught by our resident giant and generally interfering in a way you don't seem to enjoy…" Draco paused to neatly slice a particularly long petal. "I thought you might appreciate a Slytherin perspective."
"And what would that be?" scoffed Hermione. "Fawn and give her the attention she wants, like a pathetic sycophant?"
Malfoy shrugged. "Maybe, if it gets you what you need." He tossed a pruned stem into the box and took out a fresh flower. "My point is you don't have to run into something headfirst and set it on fire if you want it to change. Or try and force it to accept several dozen knitted hats. There are more… subtle approaches."
"Are you saying I should be like you lot and — and pathetically kiss her arse so I can get ahead?"
"Are you saying that wouldn't be more effective than walking around miserable all the time or, in Potter's case, actively provoking confrontation?"
"What Harry does is justified!"
"Not very helpful for him, though, is it?"
Hermione hated the smirk on his lips. Couldn't stand it. She glared at him, her flowers now forgotten. "Umbridge may be awful and personify everything wrong with — with all of this, but I will not sink to her level of corrupt manipulation. What would I be if I did that?"
"In a far better position than you are now, for one —"
"But at what cost? I'd be no better! The means are just as important as the end, Malfoy —"
"Oh, for fuck's sake — you don't honestly believe that, do you?"
"Of course I do!"
Malfoy eyed her with an odd sort of curiosity, like he was seeing a part of her she didn't understand yet. She took back her knife and squinted at the flower she'd abandoned, blindly searching for a good spot to cut. She took three breaths, scolding herself for letting him rile her up, for letting Harry's drama unsettle her emotions so.
One.
Two.
Three.
Slice.
"Why are you telling me this, anyway, Malfoy?"
She heard the blunt sounds of his own knife working against the aconite; it did nothing to dull the smirk in his voice. "Because I knew you'd overreact like this."
Typical.
"But really," he continued, sounding thoughtful now, "if you can't lower yourself to be a little bit sneaky for something you believe in, how much do you really care?"
"No, sorry, dear. Try again?"
Hermione blinked at the Fat Lady. She never got passwords wrong. "When was it changed?"
"Just yesterday morning! You got it right this afternoon, too…" The painting began an elaborate mime of something hunched over and with bulging eyes.
"Oh. Er… Oh! Rosea bufo?"
"There you go!" cried the Fat Lady as the portrait swung open. Hermione climbed through gratefully and found herself face-to-face with two wands and a pair of angry wizards.
"Where is he?" demanded Harry.
"What?"
"Did he do anything? Are you alright?"
"Ron! Keep your voice down! And Harry — put your wands away, both of you!"
They obeyed, but still looked very indignant, and it was only then that Hermione noticed the parchment in Harry's other hand. Bugger.
"Hermione, are you okay? We saw Malfoy on the map —"
"I'm fine, Harry. It's fine."
"But —"
"Really! Really, it's alright." Something near her liver plummeted as she looked between them. She'd known this would happen, and yet what had she done about it? "Don't worry," she insisted with as much lightness as she could muster, "Malfoy — he's my brewing partner."
Hermione, braced for the fallout, nervously watched their twin expressions of confusion, then outrage.
"But you're brewing for Lupin," Harry stammered. "For the Order —!"
"Malfoy doesn't know what it's for! Snape told him it was — extracurricular tutoring. For advanced students."
"Snape?"
Hermione winced but ploughed on. "He didn't want me to brew it by myself! And, honestly, given the recipe, I don't want to do it on my own, either."
"But you did the Polyjuice —"
"And I barely slept at all that month, or don't you remember?"
"Malfoy's allowed to help the Order?"
"I know, just look — look!" Hermione looked between them, pleading. "I didn't like it either, alright? But it was all Snape's doing and there was nothing I could do!"
"You could've told us," muttered Harry.
I could have.
"Why didn't you?" asked Ron.
Hermione held her breath, wondering. "It wouldn't have made a difference." And that was the truth, really. "Can we go to bed now, please?"
"But —"
"Please, Harry," Hermione begged. "I'm done talking about this. I'm exhausted and I'm going to bed. If you'd like to stay and argue with each other, go right ahead, but I have nothing more to say."
For a moment, it seemed Harry would shout at her, his jaw grinding, but then he stormed off with a hissed, "Fine," and disappeared up the stairs.
There was an aching beat of silence before Ron moved. "G'night, Hermione," he muttered as he brushed past her, footsteps echoing in the stairwell behind Harry's.
Hermione watched him go, tears burning her eyes; she couldn't shake the feeling that she'd just deceived him somehow. But should she have felt guilty? Had she really done anything terribly wrong? She made her way up to her dormitory with her teeth worrying her lip.
Her pyjamas were cool on her skin, raising gooseflesh as she caught herself staring out the window for far too long. Really, she should just go to bed, but there were so many unfinished thoughts floating around her brain that she didn't feel ready yet.
How much do you really care?
What would Draco know about her and her cares? What would he know about the fury which burned her insides every time she saw Umbridge strut through the corridors? Or read the anti-Muggle propaganda which seemed to be making its way into the Prophet with alarming frequency every bloody day? Or saw how Hagrid and the centaurs were all treated as other?
What would he know about any of that?
Nothing!
He only knew how to lie and slither his way into the grace of those in charge because he wanted some of that power for himself. It was despicable and insufferable, and she would rather die than be at all like that or like him.
Because the means were just as important as the end.
Would he have said what he did if he knew about the Polyjuice Potion? How she'd stashed it in plain sight where no-one would find it? Orchestrated the thieving of ingredients from Snape's stores? And did it all to talk to him without him even knowing it?
His eyebrows would rise. Really, Granger? he'd say. All that was you? Little second-year Gryffindor breaking so many rules? He'd pretend to think it over, the bastard. There may be hope for you yet.
But it was selfless, she'd insist, make him understand how she was different. I didn't do it so I could — cheat on exams or win something for myself. It was an act of desperation, to try and protect myself from a threat. From you.
Ah, ah, ah; but that was the end. And what does your motive matter if your means were so — he'd smirk — Slytherin?
Hermione groaned and tugged at her hair (she really needed to break that habit), moving away from the window and to her bed. The clean parchment she had pulled out lay blank and forgotten on her desk.
He was wrong! It was different! All the things she'd done — setting Snape's robes on fire, the Restricted Section, Polyjuice, the Time-Turner — all of it! All done in the name of Harry and the movement his scar stood for.
And she'd do it all again, if she had to.
Would she?
She woke feeling like she'd barely slept. Her mind anxiously spun on, playing and replaying the same arguments over and over again, waiting for a revelation, a clear answer to exonerate her of all past and future misdeeds. Did the ends justify her means?
She didn't know. How could she, when some of the ends hadn't even happened yet?
Her steps up to the Owlery were heavy and slow.
There are more subtle approaches.
If nothing changed soon, Harry would combust, and who knew what else would go with him?
She had to do something.
Ready for that Slytherin perspective, now, are you?
Could she live with herself for doing something distasteful in the name of taking down Umbridge?
Probably.
She scanned the circular tower for an owl willing to do her bidding. A plump brown one caught her eye and fluttered in her direction.
Draco smirked. You got Potter and Weasley in and out of the Slytherin common room and I didn't notice? Granted, I was — what, twelve? But I have to say, Granger, I'm impressed.
Could she live with herself for doing something that would make Malfoy proud?
The owl held still as she carefully tied the letter to its leg. The bird blinked at her, ready for instruction.
"Take this to Rita Skeeter, please."
She'd have to find out.
