Hermione was very disturbed.
"S-so Volde— Tom Riddle never knew his mother."
"Right."
"She died after giving birth to him…"
Ron looked thoughtful. "Maybe he felt like it was his fault? I mean, if you grow up believing you killed your own mum, that could mess you up, couldn't it?"
"I mean," Harry offered, "we know he hated his dad for being a Muggle. Could also be because he ruined his mum's life by making her pregnant…"
Could that really be it? Was Voldemort's sadistic mania driven by some sort of Oedipus complex? It was laughable, but also alarmingly plausible, apparently.
"I dunno — if she really was feeding him love potions, then you could just as easily say she ruined his life."
"Yeah, but Riddle wouldn't've known that."
"Oh. Right…"
Hermione bit her lip while Ron and Harry volleyed theories across the sofa. None of this felt right, and she was left more and more unsettled by Harry's descriptions of young Voldemort. From the look in Harry's eyes, he hadn't missed the disturbing parallels between his own upbringing and Tom Riddle's, either.
Half-bloods raised in ignorance of their magic… never knew their parents… bound by a prophecy…
There was a chill in her bones that couldn't be helped by the common room fire.
"'He likes to collect trophies…' What does that even mean?"
Harry shrugged. "Hermione?"
"I'm not sure. I mean, it sounds like — like he'd keep souvenirs of his victims. But he doesn't kill for the sake of killing, so I don't think the body count really matters to him…"
This was an awful conversation. Ron opened a box of Bertie Bott's beans and passed them around.
Eventually, Harry went to bed with a tight smile, and Hermione hoped this would all start to make sense soon.
October passed in windy days and a mounting pile of assignments. Wolfsbane brewing became a much quieter affair, and Hermione took care to follow their new set of unspoken rules, which included staying as far apart as possible while they worked. In the Malfoy-free week leading up to the Full Moon, she ignored him in Ancient Runes and spent her extra free time watching Quidditch practice.
Harry had got very good at captaining and Ron's strategies seemed to be working really well. While the team worked through various manoeuvres, Ron could be found watching from the reserve stands, diagrams in hand, or giving Harry a proposal to make the formation more effective.
McLaggen appeared very put out by the fact that Ron's strategy advice was taken into consideration. Several times, Cormac tried to give Harry a suggestion or, worse, correct a player himself. There was a particularly painful incident in which McLaggen decided to leave his position as Keeper to join the Chasers and show them how to throw the Quaffle; Harry immediately suspended him for the rest of the practice and sent Ron up instead.
But, overall, they seemed well-prepared for the first match at the start of November. With any luck, Slytherin wouldn't know what hit them.
Speaking of Slytherin, Hermione had reverted to stealing glances at their table during meals. She couldn't help it; when Draco was in the room, her eyes would seek him out, if only for a moment. He was like a beacon, with his pale hair and pointy features. And, almost always, he wore that expression of dark contemplation. It fascinated her, though she'd never admit it. He may have been Sorted into a house that prided itself on cunning and discretion, but in six years of knowing him, he had all the subtlety of a troll in a china shop. (As had been demonstrated that particular night she resolutely did not think about.) She didn't think he could pull off a genuinely shrewd scheme if his life depended on it; he was too prideful, too quick to reach for the easiest and most attractive solution rather than think it through. He'd never devote himself to doing something he wouldn't get credit for. How would he boast?
He was like Harry, in a way, though their motives differed wildly. And attention tended to seek Harry out rather than the other way around.
Still, she wanted to know what put that look on his pointy face. Because whatever it was, it had been troubling him for months now.
But she'd never ask him. Especially not now, not after — well. They'd managed to preserve a polite, collegial relationship, even if they did occasionally dance around each other awkwardly in the ingredient cupboard.
"S-sorry — let me just — thank you." Hermione's face heated, lavender seeds in hand, and she scurried back to the benchtop.
Draco emerged from the cupboard a second later with two pairs of silver tweezers and they set to work counting out the seeds into batches of four.
It wasn't an awkward silence, exactly, but Hermione couldn't help but shift uncomfortably, overly aware of the space between them and the soft sounds of seeds in the grip of the tweezers. She wished they could talk — anything to distract from this hollow space where all she could think of was that night — but what could she say that wouldn't sound forced? Perhaps he didn't even want to talk to her, anyway, not after —
"Hope Potter's ready to have his arse handed to him on Saturday," Draco said smugly without looking up from his work.
Hermione startled, then scoffed. "I hope Slytherin is ready to get trounced! Harry is an excellent captain and he's prepared his players very well."
"How would you know? You don't know anything about Quidditch, Granger."
"I know a well-organised team when I see one!" She flexed her hand; tweezing tiny seeds tended to bring on cramps. "Harry and his team are exceptionally good at communicating with each other while they play. They'll have no trouble winning."
She really hoped so; she didn't want to endure Draco's smugness if Slytherin won.
"Changed your mind about sabotaging McLaggen, then?"
"What?" She fished out a seed from where it had fallen in a crack in the wood. "I was never serious about that, Draco." Not entirely, at least.
"So he will be playing?" He hummed thoughtfully, a smile tugging at his lips. "Good to know."
"Why, what are you going to do? Write a chant?"
"You know, I was going to last year, in Weasley's honour, but I never had bloody time. Not with this fucking potion. But now that you mention it…"
Finished, Hermione carefully set down her tweezers beside the neat piles of seeds. Draco had only a few more to go, but apparently this took priority.
"He can't stay on his broomstick… Touches it like it's his dick… He makes everybody sick… Cormac is a prick!"
Hermione burst out laughing and immediately tried to cover it with a scoff. "That was awful."
Draco smirked, clearly pleased with himself. "Thank you. I'm sorry I won't be able to sing it."
"What do you mean? We don't have to brew until the evening, Saturday. You're not going to the match?"
Draco shrugged.
"But you were on the team!"
"So that means I have to go now?"
"Well, no, but — don't you want to? It's the Gryffindor versus Slytherin match! Don't you want to support your House?"
"I've got things to do," he said dismissively. "That Ancient Runes project —"
"I sit next to you in Runes, Draco. I know for a fact you've nearly finished it — not to mention it's not due for another two weeks! You really expect me to believe that's why you can't afford to go to one Quidditch match?"
His spine curled like a recoiling animal, and she knew she'd prodded him too far.
"Drop it, Granger."
She did. For now.
Hermione cheered and pulled her cloak tighter across her chest. Above, the players flew at nauseating speeds, uncaring of the chilly winds which battered their robes. Madam Hooch interceded when one of the Slytherin players committed a foul, but the game quickly resumed, and Hermione was quite satisfied that this would be one of the more uneventful matches she'd attended.
McLaggen deflected the Quaffle before it could go through the centre ring and the stands roared. Literally — Luna's enormous lion headpiece could be heard over the crowd.
"Well done, Cormac!" Hermione winced at the volume. Behind her, Lavender kept on shouting. "That was BRILLIANT!"
He smiled and gave a mock-salute to the Gryffindor crowd, and the Quaffle sailed right past his head into the ring. The sound from the Slytherins could only be described as a victory cry.
Harry bellowed something at Cormac, who was evidently shocked by what had transpired, and the game went on.
Though uneventful, it was one of the longer matches Hermione had seen at Hogwarts. Harry traded McLaggen for Ron about two-thirds of the way through, which was apparently unusual, as reserve players never played unless the primary one had been incapacitated. Hermione cheered for him as loudly as she could, and soon enough all the Gryffindors joined in when it became apparent he was just as good as McLaggen and without the vanity.
Harry beat Harper — the new Slytherin Seeker — to the Snitch, and Hermione felt an enormous relief at the knowledge she wouldn't have to face Draco's mockery.
That evening, in the warm and chaotic common room, Hermione watched the festivities with amused exasperation. She was proud of Harry for winning his first match as captain, and Ron for doing so well both on and off the pitch, but that was the extent of her pleasure. The house-elves had brought butterbeer and biscuits, both of which she'd indulged in, and now she was quite ready to leave.
Outside the tower, the castle was cold and quiet. Maybe she'd keep her cloak on while they brewed today.
Draco had the same idea, only he'd done one better and brought his scarf, too.
"I trust you heard?" she asked innocently whilst they fetched ingredients.
"What? That McLaggen utterly humiliated himself? Maybe you should've engineered a way to oust him. Would have been kinder. Put him out of his misery."
Hermione thought of Cormac presently on a narrow armchair with Lavender in his lap and privately disagreed.
"I suppose you lot are all tearing the place to shreds up there," Draco grunted as he hoisted the deer hide onto the benchtop.
"More or less," Hermione admitted, rummaging through the pockets of her cloak. "I brought you something, though — here."
Draco took one look at the sweets wrapped in a serviette and scoffed. "I don't need your pity biscuits."
"Yes, you do. I didn't see you at any meals today."
"Stalking me now, are you?"
"I don't want to have to deal with you fainting while we brew because you haven't eaten!"
"I can't eat in here, Granger, or do you want to explain to Slughorn why I've dropped dead of Wolfsbane inhalation?"
Hermione glared at him until, with a great sigh, he picked up the package and dropped it into his pocket. "Happy now?"
She was, actually. His already lanky physique had been getting thinner lately, and it alarmed her. It didn't help that he'd grown several inches since last term.
They worked comfortably, chatting little but at ease. Draco's hands drifted to the biscuit-filled pocket often, clearly tempted, and Hermione resisted the urge to be smug about it. She was in too good a mood to bait him. The memory of Harry landing on the pitch, Snitch in hand as Zacharias Smith announced Captain Potter had brought his team to victory...
It was perhaps one of the best things that had happened since Fred and George's departing performance.
Draco swore when his blade slipped, skidding across the hide and nearly nicking his finger. With a dark look, he resumed the task, but Hermione couldn't stop staring, Quidditch now forgotten. He looked pale — almost grey, with a sallowness that spoke of more than lack of food and sleep. His eyes held shadows, almost certainly the same ones that made him absent and twitchy at mealtimes.
He was getting worse. Why, Hermione didn't know, or care, but obviously the thing bothering him had not gone away. If he kept on like this, she decided, she would have to confront him about it. For her own safety, really; it wouldn't take long for him to become incompetent. What if a cauldron exploded in her face because he couldn't pay attention to his stirs?
If he didn't put himself together soon, she would simply have to do it herself.