Notes:
Flashbacks are when Hermione was younger. Her emotions, thoughts, values, ideas will not be the same as when she is older. Neither will other characters in this story. As far as tags, I have updated the fic with the tags I know the story will have overall but as I stated before it may change to explicit. I will update tags accordingly if so.
For this chapter's song: I knew you were trouble by Taylor Swift
SEPTEMBER 15th, 1998
Professor Arabella Pembroke, a short woman in her late sixties, sported a striking mix of gray and blonde hair that she had expertly pinned up into a messy bun. Her choice of attire was a short, casual gray weathered suit that exuded a sense of comfort and approachability. Her welcoming smile put Hermione at ease, and ease was what she needed as he was there.
Malfoy stood behind Hermione, entering the room as the second to arrive. His initial polite greeting had surprised Hermione, causing her to stare at him in complete utter perplexion and surprise. However, her sense of bewilderment didn't last long as her eye's scanned him and she noted how tired he looked, it was just as she had seen him look the year he was supposed to be the one to carry out the death of Dumbledore, he looked ill. Troubled and ill.
And yet, he hadn't. Hadn't carried out the deed. Snape had risked his life for him. A fact that she used to think about quite often. Why had he even bothered to save Malfoy of a fate he was destined for?
In his typical condescending manner, Malfoy interrupted the moment, uttering, "Don't stare at me and look at me like I'm pathetic;" He spat, "This is ministry mandated."
Hermione arched her eyebrows in incredulity, opening her mouth briefly as if she were about to respond. Ultimately, she decided to stay silent. What could she even say in this awkward and confusing situation?
In the midst of the lecture, an odd sense of fate seemed to guide Malfoy to take a seat right beside Hermione. The lecture continued, and Professor Pembroke announced their upcoming projects on author analysis, her words filling the classroom.
Hermione listened attentively; her senses alive in the academic environment. The soft rustle of papers, the gentle hum of hushed student conversations, and the faint scent of old books all contributed to the atmosphere.
Not meeting his gaze or attempting to observe his actions was becoming difficult as she was quite curious about his presence there.
Malfoy, in a muggle classroom, it was absurd.
Then, Professor Pembroke delivered a surprising directive. "Please look at the person that is seated to your right," she said with a gentle smile. "That will be your partner for this project."
He turned towards her, angling his aristocratic features her way and giving her a crooked half-smile that didn't quite meet his eyes.
Irritated, she rolled her eyes and stared at the pencil in his hand.
Pencil.
Not a quill, not a magical quill, a fucking pencil. This had to be an alternative universe she had been sucked into. Baffled, she was bloody baffled.
A sense of curiosity filled the room, and the redhead in front of Malfoy turned to him, emitting an audible groan. Hermione, on the other hand, continued to fix her gaze on Malfoy, her expression pensive.
Being in a room filled with muggles couldn't be easy for him.
The redhead, who had brown streaks in her hair, addressed Malfoy directly, offering a clear solution as it it seemed as if Hermione being his partner should not have been an option. "If you'd like me to be your partner," she began, "I don't mind switching," she pointed to the shorter, chubbier girl beside her.
Malfoy, ever the enigmatic figure, responded with narrowed eyes and the characteristic condescending curl of his lip. He shook his head and pointed firmly to Hermione, proclaiming, "Hermione is my partner."
Had that been the first time she'd ever heard him say her name and not call her a mudblood or refer to her by her surname?
Yes, it must have.
Hearing her name on his tongue sounded strange.
Foreign, this whole situation was… foreign.
Why did he not want to switch? Switching would have been a comfort.
He hated her, he always had, hadn't he?
This was not going to go well.
Malfoy, Draco Malfoy was here beside her in a muggle college classroom in a community college no less, and now she was stuck doing schoolwork with him?
The redhead's quick once-over of Hermione didn't go unnoticed, and a hint of embarrassment flickered across her face before she turned back to face the front. It was evident that she found Malfoy attractive, a detail that Hermione observed with mild amusement.
There was of course no way he'd ever be in Muggle London willingly; this was a fact she knew. Pureblood wizards like he despise muggles and muggle borns.
Malfoy seemed utterly disinterested, but then again, he always did, his face a portrait of blank emotion. His restless gaze wandered around the classroom as if he were bored out of his mind.
Thirty minutes later, the lecture finally came to an end. As they all began to gather their belongings and prepare to leave, Professor Pembroke delivered some final instructions. "Please check our online blackboard for the author you have been assigned to," she announced with a warm smile. "I have listed the names of each of you and indicated who your partner is as I've noted it here on my notebook," She closed the notebook she had been writing in and set it down. "Your essays on literary analysis of 'The Road Not Taken' will be due this Wednesday. And as you already know, we'll be discussing 'The Great Gatsby' next week. Class dismissed."
Hurrying to her next class, Hermione scurried her feet to make sure to arrive nearly half an hour early. The thought of getting a bun and coffee from the London street cart at the front of the building had crossed her mind, but she was determined to put as much distance as possible between herself and Malfoy.
She contemplated her situation, realizing that peace was now a distant wish. She couldn't help but imagine Ron's reaction if he were to find out about this unexpected development. Telling Ron was out of the question, but maybe she could confide in Harry. He'd likely find it amusing, get a good laugh from it, the fact that Malfoy was not only attending a muggle community college but was also her English Lit partner.
Merlin, what now.
"Granger!" That voice, filled with such arrogance and pompousness, forced her to stop short, her steps faltering. With a heavy sigh, she turned around, only to find him looming over her, his gaze filled with an unusual curiosity. She responded with a curt "Yes?" even though all she really wanted was to step back and put some distance between them but she certainly didn't want to give him the satisfaction of thinking he'd intimidated her.
For a brief moment, an uncharacteristically vulnerable expression crossed his face. He ran a hand through his hair and let out a deep sigh. "Well, I was just wondering if..."
"Yes," she interrupted him impatiently, sensing his hesitation. He took a deep breath and averted his gaze, unable to look directly at her. "You can show me how to access the online blackboard," he mumbled the words, a clear sign that simply asking for her help was a blow to his pride.
"You haven't accessed the blackboard yet? Classes started three weeks ago. How did you get copies of your syllabuses for all of your classes?" Hermione was about to launch into a detailed explanation and laugh, realizing that he must be unfamiliar with computers and most things in the Muggle world. To her, this situation felt like a peculiar alternate reality, but for him, it must have seemed like a surreal nightmare.
However, before she could say more or unleash a fit of laughs, she noticed the irritation in his expression. He shook his head and rolled his eyes, clearly irritated by her reaction. "I started late, about a week ago," he explained. "I asked my professors for copies of the syllabuses, and I've been managing without the internet. Those contraptions, devices are just so… strange."
Strange. This was strange.
Hermione couldn't help but scrutinize his attire. He was dressed casually in shorts, a short-sleeve button-up shirt, and loafers. It was a stark departure from his usual refined appearance, making him look more like... a Muggle. Other than the pencil and two sets of notebooks and folder in his hand, it didn't seem like he carried anything else. Where did he hide his wand?
His impatience was apparent, and before Hermione could agree to assist him, he abruptly made a dismissive gesture, stepping away from her with his hand thrown up in the air. "You know what. Never mind, Granger. Forget I bloody asked," he snapped, his tone filled with irritation, clearly angry with himself for even making the request.
Sucking in a breath, she refrained from unleashing the retorts she wanted to deliver. Her Gryffindor nature got the best of her as she called out to him while he began to walk away. "Fine. I'll assist you," she conceded reluctantly, well aware that helping him was the last thing she should be doing.
He gave her a sly once-over, and a smile that caused a twinkle in his eyes sent a shiver down her spine as he reapproached her. "Meet me at the library around three-thirty. The one in the south building, it's where they keep the computer lab," he informed her.
This time, she took a tentative step back. The sound of his voice had a strangely captivating quality, like spearmint breath on a winter's day. She couldn't help but notice a faint scent of some expensive cologne lingering in the air, a blend of cedarwood and vanilla that wrapped around her senses, making her feel strangely off-kilter.
Brushing away the thoughts of Malfoy and the surreal turn her first day at muggle college had taken, Hermione focused on her next two classes.
The professors were kind, and she even made a new acquaintance, a young man named Charles, in her psychology class. He sat beside her and generously offered to share his notes from the last three weeks. Grateful for his assistance, she agreed to "borrow" his notebook and make copies of it in the library, with plans to return it to him on Wednesday. Her schedule consisted of four classes on Mondays and Wednesdays and only two on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Her mother had thoughtfully ensured that her Fridays would be free so she could spend more time with her parents and exploring.
"Bloody Hell," she mumbled under her breath as she noticed Malfoy leaning nonchalantly against a wall across the hall from her and he had a faint smirk on his lips as he watched her approach, his stormy gray eyes fixed on her. Right where she needed to walk past to get to the cafeteria.
Brushing her dress down and sighing, she forced herself to walk past him. The pleasant scent of his cologne wafted towards her as she heard his steps follow closely behind her.
Then, he was right beside her.
"Grabbing a bite, Granger?" he inquired, a hint of amusement in his voice.
Rolling her eyes and making it a show of the distaste she felt towards having him beside her, she kept walking forward. "Well, what else would I be doing in the cafeteria?"
He chuckled softly, his voice tinged with a sly tone. "Knowing you, probably reading or doing your assignments that are not due yet for the next few weeks."
"Knowing me?" She couldn't help but retort, her annoyance bubbling to the surface. "You don't know me, Malfoy. Mere observations and years of bullying someone don't qualify as knowing someone."
Ignoring her sharp response, he continued unfazed, "When the Ministry told me this was part of my probation, so I could acclimate myself and 'fix my values,' they failed to mention they'd be sending someone to babysit me."
Her feet stopped moving as she turned to scrutinize him, her gaze piercing. "The Ministry didn't send me."
His brow perked up, and his expression shifted as he seemed to process this information. "Then why the bloody hell are you here?"
Grabbing her bag closer to her and adjusting herself, she gave him a narrowed look. "Because I want to be. Did you forget I'm a Muggle-born, Malfoy?" Her words hung in the air, laden with significance.
He tensed, and his eyes glazed over as his expression darkened. "Of course not," he finally mumbled, his voice low and strained.
She watched as he sighed and seemed to gather himself. "You need to call me Draco here," he said, his tone resigned. "My last name here is Black. And since that's not my real name and I'd prefer to not be called that, and we need to maintain the charade of me being a Muggle in this place, you need to refer to me as Draco."
She bit her lip and shook her head, clearly hesitant. "I'd rather not."
He narrowed his eyes, his voice firm. "Hermione, my name is Draco." He swallowed, as if speaking the next words were painful. "Please call me Draco." The way he said her name was oddly foreign and unsettling.
But what caught her attention wasn't the repetition of her name or the request to call him by his first name; it was the unexpected use of the word 'please.' Stuttering slightly, she spoke, "D-did you just say 'please'?"
His face contorted with a mixture of frustration and surprise as he realized that she had just pointed out his use of 'please.' Instead of answering or responding, he quickly turned on his heel and walked away, leaving her standing alone in the hallway. She could feel the curious gazes of other students passing by as she stood there frozen in place.
What in the world was happening?
Shaking away the sensation of not being in reality, she sauntered off towards a table in the cafeteria.
Charles was a tall, slender brunette with dark green eyes and sleek hair that fell gracefully to his shoulders. His boyish smile was overtly friendly, and he carried himself with charisma. As he approached her, he was accompanied by two others, his backpack hung casually from his left shoulder.
"Hermione," he greeted her warmly, his voice laced with friendliness.
"Hello, Charles," she greeted him warmly, and he returned the greeting with a friendly smile. Hermione observed her surroundings as she played with her salad. The community college cafeteria in London was a lively place. It had rows of long tables and chairs where students gathered to eat and chat. The walls were adorned with colorful posters, promoting various college events and clubs. The aroma of different foods being prepared at the various food stations filled the air, from freshly made sandwiches and salads to hot, hearty dishes. Students chatted animatedly, and there was a pleasant hum of conversation and laughter in the room.
As she took in the scene, Charles introduced his two companions. The curly-haired blonde introduced herself as Alicia with a bright smile, and the red-headed male with freckles, who reminded Hermione of Ron, introduced himself as Billy, also wearing a warm smile.
They asked Hermione about herself, and she quickly crafted a backstory. She told them she was originally from Wiltshire but had attended primary school at a boarding school in Australia, an easy lie to maintain. Alicia and Billy were a couple and had been dating for two years, while Charles had been a football player until he lost his scholarship due to an injury. He now aimed to get his degree in sports management. Hermione found herself enjoying their company and the feeling of being just like any other college student.
A Muggle.
What a concept.
No talks of magic, quidditch, potions, or... the war that had just ended. Although there was a muggle one brewing not involving Britain thankfully.
The conversation flowed effortlessly as they discussed various topics, some of which Hogwarts students wouldn't even be familiar with. They talked about local shops, restaurants, and pubs, which added to her sense of normalcy in this new environment. Towards the end of their lunch, they invited her to a party they were hosting on Saturday. Hermione had initially come to the community college for the experience, and the idea of attending a muggle party sounded intriguing. She accepted their invitation with a genuine smile, looking forward to experiencing this new aspect of the muggle world.
Malfoy, Draco Malfoy, Merlin, or whatever his bloody name was, stood in front of the grand oak library doors, his impatience palpable as she approached him, arriving just five minutes before three thirty.
Restlessly, he tapped his elegant, silver-handled pencil on his shoulder, his arms rigidly crossed in an unconscious display of tension. As she drew closer and studied him from this angle, it became evident that he had lost weight and truly did look sickly.
"D-Draco," she stuttered out his name, her voice barely above a whisper, causing him to snap out of whatever mental reverie was causing his anxiety. He looked up at her, his stormy grey eyes meeting hers, a flicker of surprise and vulnerability briefly softening his typically cold and composed countenance.
Not uttering a word to her, he pivoted and grasped the door's ornate handle, allowing it to swing open with a silent grace. With a subtle, graceful gesture, he motioned for her to enter ahead of him. Despite the nagging sense that this venture might be a terrible idea, she was determined to assist him and pushed past him into the library.
He quietly fell into step behind her, their footfalls synchronized as they made their way toward the computer section. As they advanced, their pace slowing, they eventually came to a halt beside an empty desk crowned by a computer.
Draco Malfoy stood there, arms crossed, glaring at the machine as if it were his sworn enemy.
Casting a wary glance in his direction, she alternated her gaze between him and the computer. "Well," she said firmly, breaking the silence, "turn it on then." Her words hung in the air, the challenge implicit, as they stood on the precipice of a task that seemed to be a monumental struggle for him.
Pointing his silver pencil at the computer as if it were a wand, Draco Malfoy's cool gray eyes met Hermione's with a mix of frustration and uncertainty. "And how in the bloody hell do I do that?" he asked, his voice laced with exasperation.
Without hesitation, she snatched the pencil from his hand, feeling a surge of determination. She pressed it firmly against a button at the computer's base, and to Draco's surprise, the machine whirred to life. As the screen flickered to brightness and the familiar Windows logo appeared, Hermione couldn't help but notice Draco's expression. He watched the computer with a mixture of awe and confusion, as if it were some remarkable work of art he had never encountered.
She thought back to the first time her father had seen the Mona Lisa, she had just completed her first year at Hogwarts and her parents had decided to celebrate by taking her to Paris, her father being a man of many interests was also an art connoisseur and had never had the opportunity or free time before to study the famous painting in person.
She suppressed a giggle.
"Draco, sit down," she encouraged gently, patting the empty chair in front of the computer. Casting a quick, discreet glance around the library to ensure their privacy, he hesitantly complied. Realizing he was too embarrassed to seem incompetent even around muggles, Hermione stood beside him, passing him the mouse and adjusting the keyboard in front of him.
With incredible patience, Hermione embarked on the task of teaching Draco the basics of using a computer.
Merlin, he was impossible.
She explained how to move the mouse to navigate the screen, double-click to open folders, and single-click to select items. She introduced him to the Start menu and the concept of files and folders, likening them to the organization of a wizard's library.
That reference, he understood quickly.
Draco, never one to shy away from expressing his frustrations, muttered curses and complaints under his breath throughout the process. He scoffed at the idea of 'right-clicking' and muttered about the absurdity of Muggle technology. However, Hermione remained unflinchingly patient, offering clear explanations and demonstrating each step and fought the urge to swat at him when he purposely pressed the wrong button.
As they delved into the intricacies of the internet, Hermione patiently guided Draco through the basics. She showed him how to open a web browser and explained the concept of a search engine, all the while enduring his grumbling about "Muggle nonsense." Despite his initial resistance, he followed her instructions attentively.
Together, they conducted a simple search, pulling up a page of search results. Eventually, he reluctantly shared his login details for his student blackboard portal, allowing them to access it together.
As they navigated the English Lit board, they simultaneously discovered the author they'd be studying and doing their project on: "Shakespeare."
"That quack," Draco spat as he abruptly stood up, clearly unimpressed with the mention of Shakespeare.
Offended by his dismissive remark, Hermione couldn't help but react. "Quack?" she retorted with a hint of indignation in her voice. "I'll have you know, Shakespeare was a literary genius."
Draco scoffed and adopted his characteristic haughty demeanor, his nose slightly upturned, and that irritating lip curl that Hermione had always found maddening. He began to utter something derogatory but hesitated before completing the word.
"He was a Mu..." He paused, and Hermione's heart raced in anticipation, her eyes locked onto his. Finally, he continued with a different word, "Muggle."
She had seen it in his eyes, that initial word he had almost used. It was unmistakable; he had wanted to say "Mudblood." But something had stopped him. Why?
"Muggles are just as capable of genius as anyone else," Hermione whispered, her voice barely above a hush, as she looked around the library to ensure nobody else could eavesdrop on their conversation.
His cologne was too strong.
Draco, who had been silent for a few moments too long and was staring at her for a few seconds too long, finally spoke up, "We should probably figure out when we're going to meet to start on this project."
Nervously, Hermione reached for her hair, her fingers instinctively going to her braided locks, but then she realized her hairstyle was already in place. She quickly withdrew her hand. "I can do it on my own. And just add your name to it."
His eyes narrowed as he responded, his tone measured, "I am fully capable of completing my own work and complying with the demands of my probation without you taking all the credit for it."
Huffing in frustration, Hermione countered, "I wouldn't take all the credit for it. We just wouldn't have to work together."
Merlin forbid a muggle born did his project for him.
Draco shook his head. "Let's meet on Thursday. Here."
"I have class until 1 pm," she stated firmly.
"Good," he said, his expression cool and composed, "I'm actually done around noon, so I'll be here."
This time, it was Hermione who just nodded in agreement, and without further ado, she rushed to leave the library and only turned back when she knew he had left and was gone to make copies of Charles notes.
✦•······················•✦•······················•✦
Really though, what could have been the reason for omitting Malfoy's presence when her mother and father pressed her about her first day? Surely, they wouldn't have been worried about it, considering he was just another wizard attending a muggle community college with her, and one she had known for years, even going to primary school together.
Perhaps it was because it didn't feel real, his being there. He was so out of his element, not even knowing how to turn on a computer, or perhaps it was his past.
His dark and icy past.
Martin Granger eyed his daughter wearily as she looked up at him from her plate of stew and potatoes. Her question, "What's wrong, Daddy?" hung in the air.
"I just remembered the first day you went to preschool," he began, his voice tinged with nostalgia. "Your mum put your hair in pigtail braids, and you had insisted on bringing all your nursery books to school. Your bag was so heavy that you made me carry it."
Her parents' lack of memories towards her had been something that had waned on her, this revelation was thrilling. It was working.
Her presence helped.
A warm and affectionate smile graced Hermione's lips as she recalled that day. "Yes, Daddy, I remember. You told the teacher she needed to let me take out my books whenever I wanted if she expected me to behave."
Helen, her mother, reached out and gently placed her hand on her daughter's, her eyes glistening with emotion. "It's all coming back to me too, sweetie."
Thank Merlin, Thank the mortal God.
Their memories were coming back faster than the mind healer had expected.
No this wasn't going to be quite the experience she had expected to have considering the wizard intruder in her college but everything else was going to work out. She was sure of it.
An owl arrived that evening as she sat on her bed writing and taking notes, making sure she was caught up on any missed assignments.
It was from Ron:
Mione,
We're in Japan. It's wonderful here. So different than what were used to. George and I are venturing to the muggle part a lot too. The food is amazing. Miss you. Have a wonderful Birthday Friday!
Wish you were here.
Love, Ron
Looking around her childhood bedroom and setting down his letter she smiled gently, they had agreed to only write to each other once per month and that meant missing him all the more.
Everything was going to be okay though, that's what she kept telling herself despite the memories of the last few years.
Despite having to be in survival mode for so long, finally a semblance of normalcy.
The war really was over. And she was living in muggle London, safely.
Her parents were safe.
Her cat, sprawled at the bottom of her bed that had gone to Australia with them was safe; Crookshanks gave her a knowing look, sometimes she felt like his eyes were a bit too Human.
Her friends were happy.
Things, her life was going well.
Relaxing her shoulders, she felt an ease take over her.
Peace. There was peace.
Unloading her bag, she put her wand beside her nightstand and stared at it.
Magic.
Such a concept barely existed to muggles, sure they had their fictional fantasy books and novels, but they didn't even touch on the extraordinary power of it.
The thought of power and magic forced her mind towards,
Malfoy. Draco.
Had the ministry taken his wand?
She didn't remember getting a view of it, then again why would he carry it around out in the open, she didn't.
She sent Ron a quick letter with the same owl he had sent that was perched at her window seal eating the seed she had left out specifically for any owl that came to her window and made no mention of Draco in the letter and then went to bed.
Ministry Witness protection had sent him to Muggle London, and she was sure that his whereabouts needed to remain a secret, she couldn't very well write about it in a bloody letter that could be intercepted.
✦•······················•✦•······················•✦
Tuesday came and went relatively quickly, which Hermione was thankful for.
And there had been no sign of Draco.
Another thing to be thankful for.
When she went to the cafeteria for a quick meal, she found only Alicia sitting at the table she had occupied the day before.
Alicia explained, "Neither Charlie nor Billy have Tuesday classes."
She went on to discuss the upcoming party, mentioning that invitations had been sent out via email and flyers had been distributed around campus.
Hermione was intrigued, as she had never been to a "house" party before, having only experienced house parties in the common room at Hogwarts.
The redhead who had initially wanted Draco to be her partner in English Literature walked by, and Alicia called her over. Her smile wavered when she noticed Hermione sitting beside Alicia, but she still approached them, even with a strained smile.
"Alicia," she paused, pretending to try to remember her name, "Hermione," she extended her hand, "I'm Deanna."
Hermione shook her hand and replied politely, "Pleasure to meet you, Deanna."
✦•······················•✦•······················•✦
Friday was her birthday and she had doubts her parents remembered.
Gathering herself, she headed to school determined not to let that fact upset her.
Draco was already waiting at the classroom door that Wednesday morning, his posture relaxed, and an air of boredom about him as he leaned casually against the doorframe. When Hermione approached, he flashed her a sly smile, "Hermione."
Did she really have to say his name just because he suddenly felt comfortable enough to speak hers aloud?
"Draco."
She turned away from him, facing the opposite wall, waiting for the professor to arrive and let them in.
He chuckled beside her and continued, "As the only two magical people in this dreadful place, it would be alright for us to converse more civilly, wouldn't it?"
She didn't answer him. This was her childhood bully. This was the man that let Death Eater's into Hogwarts.
This was Malfoy.
"Granger?"
She turned slowly, her expression unwavering. "Draco, we're not friends. We never have been. You were awful, and just because you and your mother have decided to repent your sins by turning your backs on everything you used to hold so dear doesn't mean you've somehow magically changed and have become a better person."
He laughed and polished his nails on his button down. "A better person? Who says I'm trying to be a better person?" His tone was even as she observed him and looked into his steel grey eyes, there was some blue that swirled in that steel grey.
She'd never noticed that before.
There was no reason for her to notice it, even now.
Before she could respond, the professor and a few other students, including Deanna, started to arrive down the corridor, so she kept her mouth closed and turned away from him.
Pembroke, their literature professor, collected the neatly typed literary analysis essays on Robert Frost's poem "The Road Not Taken," Draco's was written on parchment, in perfect script.
The classroom was filled with a hushed anticipation as the class awaited the ensuing discussion.
Electric waves filled the air, it could have very well been her magic or his but as always when it came to them both, Hermione found herself standing on one side of the argument, her brown eyes sparkling with determination, while Draco Malfoy stood on the other, his aristocratic features displaying an air of disdain. The room seemed to hold its breath, every student poised to listen, as Pembroke encouraged the debate.
Malfoy began with a sense of authority, his voice cutting through the silence. "Honestly, Granger, I can't understand why anyone would willingly choose the 'hard road' as the speaker of this poem did." He leaned back slightly in his chair, exuding an air of arrogance. "It's all well and good to romanticize the idea of taking the less-traveled path, but let's be realistic here. In life, we often face choices, and I believe in making smart, strategic decisions."
Hermione, her voice tinged with passion, countered, "Draco, the poem isn't just about taking the harder path for its own sake. It's about individualism and embracing uniqueness."
His irritation was palpable, and it hung in the air like a sharp, acrid scent. "Individualism, yes," he retorted, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the desk. "But at what cost? The speaker acknowledges that both paths appeared 'just as fair,' implying that they were equally appealing. Why would you willingly choose the one that's more challenging, when you can achieve the same results with less effort? It's a matter of practicality. Why take unnecessary risks?"
Hermione's response was passionate, her words laden with conviction. The faint scent of her floral perfume lingered in the air. "Because, Draco, sometimes taking the unconventional path can lead to personal growth and unique experiences. It's not always about achieving the same results with less effort; it's about the journey itself, and even though outwardly it may seem like the results are the same, sometimes what we see on the outside isn't the truth."
The classroom seemed to come alive with their debate, a symphony of voices and opinions. Students leaned forward, their eyes wide, absorbing every word. Draco's aristocratic posture and controlled gestures contrasted sharply with Hermione's animated and determined expression. The room was charged with the energy of their clash of ideals, creating a palpable tension.
In the end, Malfoy's parting words, like a well-placed final note in a musical composition, hung in the air. "Ah, but Granger, I prefer a journey that's comfortable and predictable. I'll leave the 'unconventional' experiences to those who enjoy unnecessary complications. I'll take the well-worn path, thank you very much." The scent of his cologne, subtle and refined, seemed to underscore his unwavering stance.
Pembroke, a knowing smile playing on her lips, observed the spirited exchange between Hermione and Draco with a twinkle in her eyes. Before she shifted the lecture's focus, she leaned forward slightly and addressed them both, her voice carrying a subtle undercurrent of amusement. "I am looking forward to hearing your author analysis on Shakespeare from you both."
Deanna, a fellow student, had managed to position herself between Hermione and Draco, her curiosity palpable as she eyed Draco as if he were a bag of freshly baked buns. Her intent gaze only added to the tension in the room. Hermione, still irritated and adamantly disagreeing with Draco's stance, couldn't help but roll her eyes at Deanna's obvious fascination.
As the lecture continued, Hermione's thoughts lingered on Draco's argument.
Where had following the well-worn path always taken him before? A dark mark and a probation sentence, she couldn't help but muse.
She found herself viewing his stubbornness as utterly ridiculous, a trait she had long associated with his character.
Class was dismissed, and Hermione observed Draco's swift departure from the classroom, his steps purposeful and determined. Deanna, ever intrigued by Draco's presence, trailed closely behind him, her voice calling out to him.
"Draco, wait," Deanna called his name, her tone carrying a note of anticipation and eagerness.
"How could anyone find him attractive?" Hermione pondered, her brow furrowing in frustration. She wrestled with her feelings, caught between her instinctive distaste for him and a begrudging recognition of his complexities.
"He was..." Hermione paused, searching for words to encapsulate her inner turmoil. "Vile. A Vile Ferret," she whispered to herself, almost as if confessing a secret. She couldn't help but acknowledge the unexpected allure in his refined demeanor, intelligence, and the subtle scent of his cologne.
Her thoughts took a darker turn as she confronted his past. "No," she asserted more firmly, her inner voice growing resolute. "He is an ex-Death Eater," she declared, reminding herself of the shadows lurking behind his façade. "A snake," she concluded, steeling her resolve against the alluring yet treacherous aspects of his character.
Walking past the pair, Hermione couldn't help but overhear Deanna's words as they hung in the air. "Party, Saturday," Deanna murmured, her excitement palpable.
Hermione, feeling a mix of irritation and resignation, couldn't suppress a groan.
With her books clutched tightly to her chest, she hurriedly made her way to her next class.
No sign of him for the rest of the day.
Not that she had been looking.
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How could someone be so incredibly brilliant and yet so incredibly dense at the same time? Antiquated values, traditionalists, and so set in their ways. Staring at the steel grey-blue eyes, she was almost on the verge of going bonkers. Right then and there, in the midst of a bustling muggle college library in London, she entertained a rather unusual fantasy. She imagined taking out her wand, the one that had been her trusted companion through her years at Hogwarts, and using it to cast a spell on Malfoy, the most infuriatingly stubborn and close-minded person she had ever met.
In her mind's eye, she saw herself turning Malfoy into a harmless creature, perhaps a squirrel, and then placing him gently inside an empty library bookshelf, hidden amidst the dusty tomes. The irony of a ferret was tempting, but she couldn't help but think that a squirrel would be more fitting for someone who seemed to have squirreled away his capacity for rational thinking.
Her fingers itched to grasp her wand, nestled safely in her bag, just inches away from her reach. She knew she could easily conjure a non-verbal spell, something harmless but amusing, to give him a taste of his own medicine. The library was bustling with students engrossed in their studies, and no one would notice a quiet, unexpected transformation happening amidst the books.
But then she took a deep breath and reconsidered. As tempting as it was to resort to magic, she reminded herself that this was the muggle world, and her actions would have consequences beyond just getting cited for using magic amongst muggles. Instead, she decided to continue to engage him in this debate, hoping that logic and reason might finally penetrate his thick skull, even in this non-magical setting. After all, she was in college now, where intellectual discourse was the preferred weapon against ignorance.
In the hushed ambiance of the college library, that Thursday afternoon, Hermione found herself sitting across from Draco, their study table piled high with books about William Shakespeare. They had been assigned the task of conducting a joint author analysis on the renowned playwright, a task that neither of them was particularly enthusiastic about, which was clear in the way he had his arms crossed and sighed impatiently.
Malfoy, with his usual air of haughtiness, couldn't help but express his disdain as he leafed through one of Shakespeare's plays. "Granger, this is utter rubbish. I can't believe people still revere this quack's writings. It's all flowery language and melodramatic nonsense. What's the point?"
Hermione sighed, her patience already wearing thin. "Draco, Shakespeare is considered one of the greatest writers in the English language. His works have endured for centuries because they explore the complexities of human nature and universal themes. It's not just 'flowery language'; it's poetry and storytelling at its finest."
Malfoy scoffed. "Universal themes, you say? I'd argue they're outdated themes. I mean, who cares about star-crossed lovers or the machinations of kings and queens in this day and age? It's all so archaic."
He was bloody archaic.
Leaning forward, she narrowed her eyes. "Just because the settings are from a different time doesn't mean the themes are irrelevant. Shakespeare's exploration of jealousy, ambition, love, and betrayal are timeless. His characters are flawed and relatable. It's a reflection of the human condition."
He could have very well been a Shakespeare character she mused as they grilled each other. Perhaps a bit like Malvolio from 'Twelfth Night.' Malvolio was pompous, full of himself, and looked down upon those he considered beneath him, much like Draco's disdain for Muggles and Muggle-borns. Or maybe he was more like Petruchio from 'The Taming of the Shrew,' who sought to 'tame' and control. Hermione continued to ponder the possibilities. Then again, she thought, there was a hint of Iago in him too, with his cunning and manipulation, especially during his early years at Hogwarts.
Malfoy raised an eyebrow. "And what about the overuse of iambic pentameter? It's tedious, and frankly, it's pretentious. It's as if Shakespeare was trying to prove he could rhyme every sentence."
Hermione leaned back, folding her arms. "Iambic pentameter is a poetic device that adds rhythm and depth to the language. It's not about showing off; it's about crafting words to evoke emotions. Besides, Shakespeare's mastery of it is what sets him apart."
Malfoy's expression grew even more disdainful. "Granger, you keep acting as if this Shakespeare bloke was some sort of literary genius, which he was not as I've stated prior. The fact is, he was just a muggle, and that alone makes his contributions less significant in my eyes."
A surge of frustration shot through her as the argument with Draco escalated. Her nostrils flared with indignation, and she took a deep breath to calm herself, but the air around her still seemed charged with tension. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair, the rough fabric of the upholstery scratching against her skin, and her fingers unconsciously tapped the table's surface, producing a faint, rhythmic sound that mirrored the growing intensity of their disagreement.
"Draco," she said, her voice edged with irritation, "dismissing someone's work based on their Muggle heritage is both ignorant and unfair." Her words hung in the air, thick with the scent of the old books that surrounded them in the library. The aroma of aged parchment and leather bindings mixed with the faint scent of wood polish, creating an atmosphere steeped in knowledge and history.
"It's about the quality of the writing," she continued, her words echoing softly in the hushed library, "and the impact it has had on literature and culture, not the author's background." She tasted the bitterness of her own frustration, as if it lingered on her tongue like an unpleasant aftertaste.
Their voices had grown louder, and a few students nearby cast disapproving glances in their direction, their eyes filled with curiosity and confusion as to what they were even arguing about. Hermione could feel the weight of those curious gazes, like unseen eyes judging their debate.
Locked in a battle of wills, they locked eyes, their gazes piercing through the charged air. Each of them was unwilling to concede their point, and the library's soft, ambient noises—the distant rustle of turning pages, the faint whisper of pen on paper and the occasional creak of an old wooden chair—seemed to fade into the background.
Malfoy finally sighed in exasperation, breaking their intense stare-down. He shifted in his chair, the subtle sound of fabric against fabric betraying his restlessness. He looked away as if suddenly bored, his eyes darting to the rows of dusty tomes lining the shelves. Although, his frustration was palpable, radiating from him like a palpable aura.
"Fine, Granger," he muttered, his words carrying the tone of reluctant defeat, "we'll analyze this bard of yours and his poetic nonsense." The words flowed like a begrudging concession, heavy with the scent of his pride wounded. "But don't expect me to become a Shakespeare enthusiast overnight."
She nodded, her triumph evident in the sparkle of her eyes and the triumphant smile that played on her lips. She leaned forward, her fingers brushing the textured surface of an open book, feeling the roughness of the pages beneath her touch. "That's all I ask, Malfoy," she whispered, purposely not using his first name to further irritate him, her voice softening with a hint of satisfaction as he gave her a darkened look. "Let's get to work, shall we?"
"How did Potter and the weasel deal with you," Draco grumbled under his breath, his words carrying a hint of bitterness that lingered in the air.
Aware of the curious glances from nearby Muggles, she suppressed a retort and chose to steer the conversation toward their task.
With a composed demeanor, she contemplated Draco's question, her friends admired her wit, and went back to the matter at hand. "Well," she began, her voice taking on a contemplative tone, "when it comes to analyzing an author like Shakespeare, it's all about dividing the work effectively." The words hung in the air, surrounded by the soft hum of the library's ventilation system and the distant shuffling of bookshelves.
She gestured toward the stack of Shakespearean plays they had gathered on the modern library table, her fingers lightly tapping the covers, smooth and cool to the touch. "First," she continued, her voice steady and scholarly, "we can divide the plays into categories—tragedies, comedies, histories. Each genre offers its own unique insights into Shakespeare's themes and storytelling techniques."
Hermione's gaze moved to a nearby computer, its screen displaying a list of digital resources and research tools. "Then," she added, her eyes returning to Draco, "we can choose specific plays to analyze in-depth. I'll take one, and you can take another. We'll examine the characters, the themes, the language, and the historical context."
As she spoke, the quiet hum of the library's computers and the faint clicking of computer mice provided a background symphony to their conversation. Hermione reached for a nearby notebook and pen, her fingers gripping the casing, and began to sketch out a plan for their analysis.
"By dividing the work this way," she concluded, her words filled with intellectual fervor, "we can gain a deeper understanding of Shakespeare's brilliance and, hopefully, find some common ground in our interpretation of his works."
"Brilliant," Draco spat in response, the word dripping with sarcasm. His voice carried a touch of annoyance that hung in the air like a smoky haze. In his impatience, he leaned over the stack of books, his fingers drumming impatiently on the polished wooden surface of the library table. The rhythmic tapping created a dissonant counterpoint to the hushed ambiance of the Muggle library.
Noticing Draco's habit of tapping his fingers or that silver pencil of his, which he wielded with an almost wand-like precision, Hermione couldn't help but observe the regular rhythm it had become in their interaction since he had arrived to start this project with her.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
It should have been distracting, but she found herself focusing on it.
Anxiety- He had anxiety.
Or he was nervous? Or maybe it was a combination of both.
Being here, with her and other muggles, it must have been difficult for him.
Not that she should care.
Malfoy having a difficult experience was not her problem or her concern, because he was a bloody squirrel. And that image would live rent free in her mind until he proved otherwise.
With a begrudging nod, he began to divide the books as she had suggested.
The books, sleek and modern in their design, seemed almost alien amidst the ancient tomes surrounding them. As Draco separated them into distinct categories—tragedies, comedies, and histories—the sound of crisp pages brushing against one another filled the air, a reminder of the tangible task at hand.
She observed his progress with a sense of growing weariness.
It had been an hour already, and all they'd done was argue.
Their partnership was going to be challenging.
Sighing she started assisting him.