Hermione didn't remember exactly how long it had taken for Harry and Ron to reconcile in their fourth year. It had been a dreadful, excruciating process that had left her resenting both boys for longer than she'd care to admit.
Thus, she was quite convinced that this would take care of itself within the week, at most, and drank her pumpkin juice merrily whilst Harry and Ron studiously pretended the other did not exist. Quite frankly, she had more important things to worry about, and would much rather talk to Neville.
"So, how was the Slug Club dinner?"
'Slug Club?' Is that what we're calling it? Hermione gave a little shrug. "Exactly how you'd expect, I suppose."
"Yeah, I s'pose…" Neville pierced a sausage with his fork and looked at it thoughtfully. "I thought it a bit odd, how he invited us to his carriage on the train and all. Did I tell you he gave us all these fancy sweets? Really odd. But I guess he decided he doesn't want me, because he's not invited me to anything since." He popped the sausage into his mouth and chewed it while Hermione floundered for something reassuring to say. "Don't worry — I don't really care. I heard Malfoy was there, though."
"Malfoy? Yes, he was there. With his name and family, I'm sure Professor Slughorn is ecstatic to have him."
"He's not, though," observed Neville. "Slughorn's been trying really hard not to associate with people whose parents were outed as Death Eaters. Like Theodore Nott, for example." Neville pointed at the Slytherin table with his fork. "His family's nearly as important and prestigious as Malfoy, but Slughorn won't go near him."
Just as Neville said, Hermione saw the cluster of shamed Slytherins isolated at one end of the table. Crabbe, Goyle, Nott, Malfoy… They were all hunched over, as though daring anyone to get too close, while the rest of their housemates maintained careful distance. Draco was at the end, chin resting on his hand, staring into space. He had that look on his face, like he was trying to win a chess match in his head but couldn't tell if was losing or not. She'd caught him like this several times while they brewed but had never thought anything of it.
"I'm sure Professor Slughorn has his reasons for inviting Malfoy," she said slowly. "I wouldn't even try to understand the way Slughorn's head works, actually."
Neville made a sound of agreement as he bit off another sausage. "What's he like as a teacher?"
"Average."
"It's funny; I was so relieved when I didn't make it into N.E.W.T. Potions. Then, of course, Snape had to go and take over Defence, instead. Although it's not as bad as I thought it would be — I'm much better at Defence than Potions."
"Oh, you're doing really well, Neville, even with Snape as a teacher…"
Now that she'd seen it, she couldn't stop looking… Pensive wasn't quite the word to describe Draco's expression. Preoccupied, perhaps, but it was not the look of someone contemplating an abstraction. Hermione thought this is what someone would look like if you asked them to choose between strangling a beloved pet or stepping on it.
His eyes flickered and everything became sharp and icy as he held her gaze for a second.
They looked away just as quickly and Hermione brushed all thoughts of him from her mind.
By the third week of September, the term had settled into a comfortable pattern. Classes were all properly underway, now, and the homework load was unlike anything they had yet experienced. Ron's pained remark that it felt like O.W.L.s every week was not terribly far off the mark. Hermione attacked it with gusto and found it to be a much-needed distraction as reports of disappearances (some explained, some not) and other Death Eater activities became more and more frequent and disturbing. She read the Prophet at breakfast like everyone else, and then actively avoided thinking about any of it lest she make herself completely mad.
She couldn't look away from Hannah's chair in Herbology, though. When Professor McGonagall had stopped by last class to speak with her, Hannah had gone very pale. No-one had seen her since, though rumour quickly spread that her mother had been murdered. According to her dorm-mates, all her things had disappeared, and she was not expected to return anytime soon. Professor Sprout kept eyeing her vacant seat with a sad, troubled expression, and Susan Bones looked miserable. She was still grieving the death of her aunt, Amelia, and seemed terrified that what little was left of her family was about to go the same way.
Hermione often wondered what she would do if McGonagall came to give her news of her parents. Would she break down in tears in front of everybody? Be calm and poised, coolly rational? She couldn't think about it very long before her heart started throbbing unnaturally. Like a flighty animal, she wanted to run away and hide them, hide withthem, anything to keep them from the obituaries in the Prophet—
But then Harry would walk by, give her a wry smile and a wave, or Ron would accidentally douse Crookshanks whilst practicing the water-making charm, and all the terror would melt to the periphery. For now.
The last week of September was also, coincidentally, the last week leading up to the full moon. Draco and Hermione stared into the silver cauldron, Bubble-Head Charms retired now that the potion was finished, and watched the plum-coloured Wolfsbane gurgle in the candlelight.
On the bright side, it looked correct, which Hermione was quite proud of given they hadn't made it since three moons ago.
Unfortunately, they had no idea what to do with it.
"Professor Slughorn must know it would be finished tonight," repeated Hermione in frustration.
"Well, maybe he forgot. Or doesn't care. Why don't we just leave it? He might come to evaluate it on his own after we've gone."
"We can't leave it!" cried Hermione, appalled. "To be effective, Wolfsbane must be consumed every day for a week leading up to the full moon. Missing even one dose makes it useless!" Lupin needed it tonight.
"Fine!" Draco scowled and went to the door. "Wait here; I'll go get Slughorn."
The door closed, leaving Hermione alone with the cauldron, worrying her lip with her teeth. Slughorn's motives were still ambiguous to her. Did he know that their "project" was to benefit an actual werewolf? Or would he think this was all a lovely exercise, chuck it in the bin, and assign them some other difficult recipe for next time?
She was halfway through drafting a plan to smuggle it to Lupin through the Floo when the door opened, admitting Draco and Professor Slughorn in a rather ridiculous looking dressing gown.
It isn't even evening yet, Hermione realised with exasperation. Does he really just sit around in his office, dressed like that, eating crystallised pineapple?
But Professor Slughorn, it turned out, had no idea what to do with the potion, either, and bustled off to go find Professor Snape.
"You can stop fretting, Granger," Draco said from the other side of the room, amused.
She dropped the edge of her sleeve which had begun to unravel from her constant fidgeting. "I'm not fretting. I'm just… making sure everything's done correctly. That's all."
Draco made a face at that, but didn't say anything, and his expression resumed that grim, thoughtful look that he wore so often these days.
She tried not to think about it too much, and instead meditated on the fact that, as of yesterday, she was an of-age witch, and all the implications that held. Before she could get too caught up in her identity crisis, however, Professor Snape arrived with the silver flask, the potion was decanted, and their work was done.
Hermione's bag hurt her shoulder as she stepped into the corridor; the number of books she had to carry around now was outrageous. Perhaps she'd look into a Lightening Charm.
"Bye, Draco," she called, already thinking of wandwork as she strode away. "See you in a week."
She heard a shuffle behind her.
"See you next week, Granger."
Her week without Wolfsbane meant a lot more time doing homework with Harry and Ron, or tea with Hagrid, or ambling about the grounds. It was always nice to spend more time in sunlight as opposed to below ground, even if Harry's conversation almost always drifted to Quidditch strategy. Though he'd been on the team since was eleven, he'd never really had to think about much other than catching the Snitch, and that was mostly reliant on speed and luck.
Ron, on the other hand, as an experienced Keeper and seasoned fan, had plenty of opinions on how to build a game plan. Though it was Quidditch which had set them against each other, it was inevitably what brought them back together again. Hermione was happy to leave them to it, especially when they tried to interrogate her about Malfoy's quitting the Slytherin team and what that might mean for their overall strategy.
Obviously, she had no idea why he'd quit. Given the monumental change in coursework, she didn't doubt that his academic excuse was true. There was no way you could be a N.E.W.T. student and a dedicated Quidditch player without sacrificing one or the other. It was impossible.
Each night, she watched the Moon grow fuller in the sky, and hoped Lupin was doing well.
She wondered, too, how Draco was. She couldn't help it; he'd become such an integral part of her routine that it felt strange not to see him. Her eyes automatically sought him out at meals and during the classes they shared. She found herself wondering what he thought of the complicated theorems governing Human Transfiguration and how they compared to modern understanding of Metamorphagi. He'd always seemed good at Transfiguration.
But she couldn't speak to him, of course, and he didn't approach her. Most of the time, he looked sour or distracted, and the few times their eyes accidentally met, he always looked away quickly. Even at their shared table in Ancient Runes, he barely acknowledged her, except to move his textbook when it encroached on her space.
It was a puzzling loss Hermione didn't quite understand. She began counting down the days until the next lunar cycle; she missed their little laboratory. She told herself it was because she enjoyed the challenge of brewing such a difficult recipe, and the quiet homework time, and that it made her much harder for Cormac to find.
Only two days, she reminded herself as she quietly patrolled the seventh floor. That's Friday, which means McGonagall will have assigned that Transfiguration essay — maybe Draco ca—
She froze. There — again — footsteps. Faint, but definitely there.
Her fingers wrapped more securely around her wand. Should she cast Lumos? Or would that scare them off? It was probably a young student out of bed — maybe sneaking into a friend's common room. As a Prefect, it was her duty to enforce the rules of Hogwarts and send them off to bed with a warning, but in times such as these she wanted to give a full lecture. Honestly, who thought it wise to sneak around the castle at night when there was a war going on?
Careful to keep her own footsteps light, she crept in the direction of the sound. They were coming this way, she realised with a jolt, and she quickly pressed herself against the wall by the corner, ready to catch them when they turned —
"Lumos — Ha! Caught y—"
"Ow! — Fuck — Granger? — what in Merlin's bloody name —"
"D-Draco?"
"Obviously!"
Hermione pulled her wand away from where it was currently blinding him. He looked exhausted and angry, and she was so shocked to have not found a delinquent second year that she was briefly lost for words.
"What are you doing here?" he snapped, eyes flickering all over.
"Patrolling. What are you doing here?"
"Patrolling, too, of course," he sneered like this was very obvious. Hermione resisted the urge to shrink away from his tone.
"Slytherin doesn't patrol tonight, though; it's just Gryffindor and Ravenclaw Prefects on Wednesdays —"
"Well, obviously you're wrong."
She squinted at him in the shadows; he was so tense she could practically feel it straining the air around him.
"Well?" he snapped when she'd been quiet for too long. "Are you going to dock me points for doing my job?"
"N-no, of course not —"
"Then get on with it, Granger!"
"Fine!"
Without looking at him, she returned to her original course at a brisk pace. He fell into step beside her, jaw and fists clenched. One of the few portraits still awake gave him a look, and Hermione was very glad Draco didn't see it.
She wasn't sure where he was supposed to be patrolling, but he stayed by her side for several more minutes. Just when she was contemplating taking a sudden turn to see if he'd follow, he abruptly asked, "Do you always patrol the seventh floor Wednesdays?"
"No." She glanced at him; he was less rigid, but there was something in his eyes she didn't like. "The Gryffindor schedule isn't very consistent."
"But you always patrol this part of the castle?" It wasn't a question; it was a demand.
"No — like I said, it's inconsistent. And my schedule even more so, since half the time I'm meant to be patrolling, I'm in a lab with you." She held her breath for seventeen more paces, reeling in her frustration before she could do something unfortunate, like wake the whole castle by screaming at him for being aloof and unsettling. "Why do you want to know? Is Slytherin not —"
"I don't. I don't want to know. It doesn't matter. Good night, Granger."
And he turned on the spot and stormed off in the opposite direction, disappearing into the shadows.
