Scarecrow by Eucalyptus [Rated PG] (2/2)
Exchange Request for turkishangora
Title: Scarecrow
Author: eucalyptus
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Word Count: ~ 14,000
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine.
Category: Some fluff. Some humour. Some angst. Some romance. Much randomness.
Author Notes: Eek. Well, this story is about as bipolar as it gets. Not sure how I feel about it. It is ineligible for any voting.
Summary: Hermione Granger learns first-hand the inner workings of the human heart. AU story that works loosely within HBP canon.
Scarecrow -- Part 2 of 2
Though autumn comes with the turning of leaves and the dampening of the ground and the whistling of crisp wind, some remnants of summer remain. It becomes difficult to find a quiet place to study as students get busier, and one evening on the heels of an abnormally warm day, Hermione finds herself studying in the depths of the Great Hall, cranky from the seasonal highs she can’t remember her childhood having. A few fine hairs at the nape of her neck, too short to have made it into the ponytail, curl in the humidity and stick to her sweat-soaked skin. As curfew approaches, she pours over an arithmancy assignment, hastily calculating and recalculating the assigned problems.
Every problem has a solution, she thinks, pouring over her library texts like she might forget how to read at any moment.
But this night of all nights, the first time she has chosen to work in the Great Hall after classes in all her years at Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy passes through the door with his book bag slung over his shoulder. The wide auditorium is pretty much empty and he has his choice of any number of seats. Hermione shoves her book in her face and pretends she hasn’t noticed him, all the while trying to still her beating heart.
His footsteps are steady as he crosses the hall. Then, to her utter surprise, he slides into the seat directly across from her.
She is instantly too aware of him to do any actual homework.
For the longest time she makes a fervent attempt to appear like she hasn’t noticed him. He does the same, taking his texts out and haphazardly sprawling his things across the table. She notices that he has changed out of his uniform into lighter clothes and immediately regrets that she didn’t go back to the dorms after class to do the same.
It is inevitable that they speak to each other, since that was undoubtedly Malfoy’s intention when he chose to sit with her, but she can’t think of a bloody thing to say. Oh, but if only he didn’t make her so nervous! This is all because he kissed her, she thinks with no small measure of annoyance. It’s different now, and no matter how badly she wants it, she can’t summon any of the poise she used to have around him.
Her quill poised on the edge of her parchment, she opens her mouth to speak then closes it again, all the while keeping her eyes turned away.
For his part, Malfoy says nothing as he rustles in his bag and gets to down to work. A hollow silence fills the space between them for several minutes.
Eventually she works up the nerve to look at him over the top of her parchment, and when she catches him looking, Malfoy hastily averts his eyes.
“That the Arithmancy problems for tomorrow?” he blurts, breaking the silence.
Relief floods her senses. She clears her throat. “Yes.”
“Can I see them?”
She slides the paper across to him. Malfoy pushes the hair out of his face and screws his face up in concentration as he reads through her work. She takes the opportunity to study him. He looks no different than he has all year, but he is different nonetheless; the same dark circles, the same pale face, but now that she is closer, as close as she’s been since that day in the forested Divination classroom, she can see that he has lost weight. His shirt is noticeably too big for him and there is something off about the glassy sheen of his eyes. His hair is the texture and colour of straw.
“I can’t figure out number four either,” he says eventually, passing it back. “It’s like I can hear Vector in my head, giving the lecture, but no matter how much I try I can’t remember what she said. Does that make sense?”
“Yes.”
It is all she can manage to say. Inwardly Hermione groans at herself. She collects her parchment back from him and again pretends to work, but intuitively she can feel Malfoy’s eyes on her and it makes goosebumps rise on her skin.
“What?” She looks up at him. His face flushes a pale pink and for the longest time he doesn’t answer.
Finally his jaw tightens and his words come out in a rush.
“It didn’t work, you know.”
“What?” she says, then her face floods with colour at the memory. “Oh. You mean…you’re still distracted?”
He toys with the clasp of his leather book bag, carefully not looking at her. “Well,” he mutters, “a different kind of distracted.”
And her stomach jumps up into her throat.
“I didn’t realize I was so fascinating,” she says to herself, bewildered and embarrassed, but also secretly pleased.
Malfoy snorts, deeply interested in the wooden clasp. “You have no idea, Gryffindor.”
It is only with a herculean effort that Hermione manages to hold back the smile threatening to split her face in two. She has to turn her face down to hide her struggle.
“Can you check my work?” he says, suddenly jumping back to business. “I’ve got the alternate set, so only the last question is the same. I had to do it in a rush, you see. Not all of us have as much time on their hands as you.”
And oh, she can see his words for what they are and as a result she isn’t bothered by his sharp tongue in the slightest.
“Honestly, it’s one excuse after another for you lot.” She heaves a great sigh and holds out her hand. “Of course, I’ll look at it. Give it here.”
He passes her the scroll. “You’re bossy,” says Malfoy with a touch of a sneer. “I bet that’s why you like being Prefect so much.”
“Stop talking,” she instantly orders, only half-joking.
There is a brief pause.
“Intense too.”
Something about the way he says this draws her attention. Hermione warily looks up, and when their eyes meet, even though she can’t decipher the casual expression on his face, his eyes darken in a look she is unfamiliar with. And she knows without a doubt that it’s not a malevolent look but a different sort of look altogether, one that she finds herself reacting to like she's been hit by a shockwave.
It takes a huge effort to turn away.
As she bends over his work, Malfoy mutters something about getting something to eat and wanders off.
There is something scholarly about checking another student’s work that appeals to Hermione’s sense of academics. To her, this is the best forum for education - students helping students so the lot of them achieve together -- so she starts methodically working through Malfoy’s Arithmancy assignment. The first problem is a traditional numerological reading of a person of the student’s choice, and Hermione agrees with Malfoy’s numeric results and analysis. The following two questions work in reverse, with the numbers and analysis provided first for an unidentified historical figure (answer: Nicholas Flamel) and then an unidentified event in history (answer: the 14th century witch burnings). But it is the last problem that stumps her. This is the question that is also on her problem set. It asks the student to predict the outcome of a described scenario.
No matter how many times she reads through his answer and recalculates it using her numerology chart, she keeps coming back to the same set of numbers. Unfortunately, it is clear that the numbers are wrong, because the corresponding interpretation makes no sense in the context of the scenario.
Eventually she throws it all down in a huff, extremely irritated.
“That’s not real food,” she says later when Malfoy returns. The Great Hall carries her voice across to him as he enters through the door and walks over.
Malfoy takes the sugar quill from his mouth. “Yeah, it is. I’m eating it, aren’t I?”
“But it has no nutritional value.”
“Sugar is a nutrient.” He lazily sucks on the quill again, mild amusement showing on his face.
“Sugar is not a nutrient, you git,” she replies, simply because she can’t help herself. “You know, if you’d gone to the kitchens and asked nicely, the house elves might have made you a proper meal.”
“You want it?” He sits beside her and shoves the wet sugar quill in her face.
“Ugh, no.” Hermione recoils and tries to push it away without touching it, making him laugh crudely. “I don’t eat sweets. It’s bad for your health.”
“You’re bad for my health.”
“Good one," she deadpans, "even though it made no sense at all."
Malfoy shrugs. “Talk to me about Arithmancy.”
“Oh, right.” She pushes his paper across the table. “They’re all correct -- except the last. We got the same answer.”
“Let me guess,” he sighs, his voice laced with sarcasm. “You don’t know why it’s wrong, just that it is.”
Hermione frowns. “Yes, and it’s driving me absolutely crazy. I mean, if you read the scenario given, the provided outcome should result in a circumstance-oriented analysis, not pinnacles and phases of expression.”
“Then it’s the numbers, not the interpretation of the numbers,” Malfoy responds automatically. “They’ve got be to be wrong.”
“But I’ve checked them loads of times, so it’s not how they’ve been calculated. We’ll find the answer, I know we will. There’s always a way.”
They exchange a look.
“I’m turning it in like that,” Malfoy mutters. “It’s not worth enough to bellyache over.” He sits back, his arm lazily propped on the table.
A few seconds pass, and then an idea pops into her head.
“I wonder how Peeves is doing,” she says carefully, aware that she is trying manipulate him. “Did he snitch on you?”
“Of course not, he knows better than-- ”
Malfoy abruptly shuts up and gives her a shrewd look.
A comfortable silence follows. With the glow of candles lost to the starlight of the false sky, Hermione chooses to ask him something she knows she shouldn’t.
“Draco…” Her lips clumsily form his first name. “If you needed help for any reason, you’d ask for it. Wouldn’t you?”
He stiffens, and her heart pounds like a jackhammer in her chest. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him dart in towards her, rising from his seat.
This time she catches him with her wand to his chest.
“What are you doing?” she asks breathlessly, turned towards him.
“I’m trying to kiss you,” he mutters, leaning in again.
“No, my question.” She pushes on his shoulder with her other hand and he colours.
“I don’t need help!” Malfoy says, sneering. “I don’t need anyone’s help, least of all yours!”
“I’m not offering, you idiot. I’m just asking!”
They engage in a fierce staring contest and then Malfoy throws himself to his feet and starts shoving his books into his bag.
“YES, Granger. I would get help if I needed it.” His face contorts in annoyance and barely restrained anger.
Hermione hurriedly collects her stuff as well and follows him out. It is nearly curfew anyway. She rushes to keep up with his longer stride and passes through the oak doors of the Great Hall hot on his heels.
“Malfoy, stop.”
He doesn’t. And to her surprise, he ignores the stairs that lead to the dungeon, instead turning down the corridor of classrooms. She blindly follows, nearly running to keep up.
“Wait.”
Then he turns right at the very end, pushes through the door, and they exit out into the courtyard.
“Draco, wait. You can’t go outside now, it’s against school rules. Stop. STOP.”
Just as she’s about to lunge in front of him, Draco comes to a sudden halt and turns around. He’s breathing hard. Her eyes travel swiftly over the planes of his face, the lines of his neck, the hard slope of his shoulders, trying to gauge his mood, his next words, his intentions.
And dropping his book bag, he grabs hold of her by her shoulders and deliberately guides her back and to the right, into the shadows.
They stumble together up against the exterior wall of the castle. He is so close to her that her stomach flip flops. And before he gets the chance, she boldly takes his head in her hands and catches his lips with hers.
It starts awkwardly, their movements out of sync. Her neck bends back too far due to the height difference, smacking the wall and causing her to drop her own book bag with a loud thump. In response, he makes a sound low in his throat and slows the pace, moving his mouth softly against hers. She begins to hear everything as an observer might, all too aware of the otherwise quiet of the courtyard. There is the sound of crickets and a light breeze. Secretly she opens her eyes and peeks around to find the courtyard empty. Then they find a rhythm.
These kisses are lazy and slow. Hermione opens her mouth without hesitation and touches her tongue to his, drawing him into her mouth. As he presses closer, clumsily wrapping an arm around her waist, she angles her chin to the right for deeper access. He appears to appreciate this and hums low in his throat.
It is then that she realizes how warm it is outside. She is forced to focus on her breathing, and after a few minutes, they are gasping for air.
Hermione presses her hand against his face, then skims her hand over the sharp angle of his jaw to the nape of his neck. Draco grins against her mouth and slides his other hand down her pleated skirt to touch high up the back of her leg. When she bends her leg at the knee, he pulls it up around his hip and suddenly she remembers where they are.
Instantly she pushes him back.
“We ha-have to go,” Hermione stammers, flushed and breathless. “It’s curfew.” Her hands are on his chest and she can feel his heart beneath her hands, pounding hard.
Draco swallows and cups the back of her thigh, eyes unfocused. “Not yet.”
A surge of pleasure rushes through her and she drops her voice to a whisper. “I suppose I could stay five more minutes…if you tell me what’s wrong.”
As soon as the words are out, she wishes there was a way she could take them back. Draco recoils, putting a distance between them.
And Hermione, a roaring in her ears, watches the way he carefully composes himself, the way he paints a cold expression on his face, and she braces herself against the wall and is hit with the realization that she is right, she is right. She knows it more confidentally than anything she has studied, anything she has learned, anything she has read and observed and been taught. She knows it like she knows how to read. She knows it like she knows that it is hot outside. She can feel it, intuitively, instinctively, without doubt.
He wants to switch to the side of the Light.
“Stop,” he orders with an uncharacteristic waver in his voice. “Stop thinking something’s wrong with me. Stop asking me questions.”
“But--”
“It’s not your business and I don’t intend to tell you, so just be a good girl and keep distracting me.”
“I thought you didn’t want the distraction.”
He blinks. “I changed my mind.”
“Well, you can’t order me around,” she mutters. “What if I don’t want to?”
He growls in frustration and closes his eyes. “Hermione. Please.”
A part of her wants to tell him that she understands, that she can help him switch sides, that she can convince Harry and Ron and everyone else that he can be trusted, but she doesn’t trust herself to say it the way it needs to be said, especially when he is trying so hard to keep it a secret.
“I just want to help,” she mutters in a tiny voice.
He laughs, almost bitterly, and pulls her face right next to his. “Trust me, you’re helping.”
“No, I’m not. I’m…just a distraction.”
He sends her a lazy smile. “I don’t see the problem. I’m trying not to think here.”
“Shut up.” She smiles and feels her face go hot.
“You’re blushing.”
“I am not, shut up.”
“Only if you skip Potions with me tomorrow.”
Her stomach flutters. “What? No way, I can’t.”
“Come on,” he whispers, kissing her. “I bet you’ve never skipped a class before. Isn’t my personal welfare worth it?”
“Draco.” She is unable to suppress a gasp as he slides his hand up to the very top of her leg under her skirt. “Draco, we can’t, it’s against school rules. ”
“I hate to tell you this, but this is against school rules too.”
She bites her lip. “No, this is different.”
“How?”
“It’s much harder to be discovered. Someone would actually have to catch us out here to get in any trouble. But Slughorn would notice if we both were missing from Potions unexpectedly, and the same is true for Arithmancy. They’re not big classes. Plus, my friends know I don’t skip. They’d probably assume something horrible had happened and go straight to Dumbledore, after which there’d be this big, public search we couldn't possibly hide from. Dumbledore has ways to track his students. Portraits and maps and ghosts. They’d KNOW right away we were together, Plus, I’m still a Prefect. I can’t skip class. Maybe...maybe we could just see each other when we get the chance. If you want to, that is.”
He groans with frustration, then flashes her a look of annoyance. As consolation, she wraps her arms around his neck and places hot kisses on his face. “Sorry,” she whispers.
“You don’t play fair. Fine. No skipping Potions.” He buries his head in the crook of her neck and she feels him breathe hot little puffs of air on her collarbone.
It makes her shiver. She muffles a girlish laugh and draws him closer.
Suddenly a door nearby opens with a loud crack, and they flinch. Damn.
“Someone’s coming.”
His head snaps up and they hurriedly disentangle, scrambling for their book bags and bidding a hasty, incomplete goodbye. The courtyard is bathed in the soft blue glow of moonlight.
As they head in opposite directions, Hermione touches her fingers to her lips. She will have to take the long way around to the dormitory. The rumple of her clothing is embarrassing enough, and as she enters the castle through another door, she tugs at them frantically, trying to get herself in order before anyone sees her and guesses what she’s been up to. That doesn’t stop her from smiling to herself. When she goes inside and makes it to entrance hall, she can’t help but peek down the stairs that lead to the dungeons, and way below she spies Draco heading downward, hastily fixing his hair. In the time it has taken for them to get this far apart, he has been joined by some of his Slytherin housemates.
The smile falters on her face. It must be hard for him, she thinks, feeling a pang of sadness.
She wants to be able to believe that she’s got good reasons, that she should be allowed to do this one thing, for once, and that she’s definitely able to keep herself grounded. But the only thing she knows is that she’s awfully confused and feeling too many things at once. And if anyone were to ask if she were in over her head, she would be lying if she didn’t say yes.
_ _ _ _ _
Hermione will later wonder if she knew that it would end badly. She will wonder if some small part of her had already accepted that it couldn’t work, that there weren’t enough reasons in the world for them to be anything but enemies. Because if there was anyone in her life she could have called an enemy, that person could easily have been Draco. And if she was capable of truly hating anyone, then surely she could have hated him, as much as she hates Dolores Umbridge and Rita Skeeter and Bellatrix Lestrange.
The next day, she is walking up a set of staircases to the Gryffindor dormitory when she spots Malfoy a story above, heading down on a path that will take her directly past him. Her chest warms with pleasure and since the halls are deserted enough, she figures she can probably stop and say hello.
But no sooner has she stepped foot on the next staircase then there is a great, ear-splitting groan. She stumbles and screams out as the whole thing lifts up in the air, is forced to scramble for one of the handrails. It moves and she squeezes her eyes shut. Then the world spins. Just as she thinks she can’t hold on any longer, it reaches the opposite side of the turret and comes to a loud, jolting stop.
When she opens her eyes, she finds herself as far from Draco as she can possibly get. Short of breath, she unsteadily climbs to her feet.
He stares across at her with a similar expression of shock on his face. The students know the staircases don’t usually move with students on them. Prefects only warn first years about it so they’ll be prepared to take alternate routes to class -- not because there’s supposed to be any actual danger.
Hermione pushes her hair behind her eyes and self-consciously starts collecting her books. She tries to steady her frazzled nerves.
It’s the castle, she thinks, taking a deep breath and resuming her trek to the dormitory. When she glances back at Draco, she notices that the portraits hanging on the wall are staring at her -- their faces frozen, carefully expressionless. And she knows the castle is alive in them, through them, and it makes her mouth go dry.
Though she doesn’t quite know why, she begins to speed up.
Later that day, when Draco tugs her into an empty classroom, a dirt yellow ceramic urn inexplicably topples over on the teacher’s desk. They barely make it out before a thick cloud of tiny Persian beetles escape from it and swarm them.
It happens again the next day, an entire bookshelf tipping over when they’re snogging in the stacks. To Hermione’s horror, Madam Pince and about thirty doe-eyed first years on a tour nearly catch them in the act. One of the larger books topples from the highest shelf and smacks her on the back of the head, giving her a headache and a lump the size of an orange.
It quickly becomes clear that if they are to continue whatever they have become, they will have to put some effort into it. That is easier said than done, however, because Hermione is reluctant to have the conversation in the first place. There is some element of a power struggle in whatever is happening between them and the last thing she wants is to admit that she wants something before he does. At the very least, she is sure that she wants to continue. He makes her forget the coming war and her worries for Harry, as little sense as that might make, since the very idea of them together is still so bizarre that she doesn’t feel like herself when they are together. So she sidles up beside him in Potions while collecting ingredients -- eye of newt, wing of bat, powdered beetle dung -- and asks the question.
“What should we do?” she whispers, chewing her lip. “Go to Dumbledore? Surely he can lift the spell.”
Draco shakes his head imperceptibly, keeping his face turned away. “If he didn’t want it to be this way, he’d have already lifted it.”
“But Dumbledore wouldn’t try to keep students apart.”
“Who’s to say he wouldn’t? I bet he would.”
Draco walks away without allowing her to answer, a beaker clutched in each of his hands. The conversation leaves her uneasy. When Harry shoots her a questioning look, she shakes her head and hastily returns to her desk, trying to quell the blush rising in her cheeks.
_ _ _ _ _
On Friday, she stares at Draco across the Arithmancy classroom and decides that he looks like a scarecrow dressed in a school uniform, his hair the same colour as sunbleached hay, his shoulders narrow, his body longlimbed. The nickname appeals to her. She imagines herself to be Dorothy in red ruby slippers.
That day, Professor Vector passes back the arithmancy homework.
Hermione sees the grade at the top of the piece of parchment and feels her stomach drop. She was given a low B. It is one of the lowest grades she has received since coming to Hogwarts. The first three questions received full marks, so it is question four that is wrong, as she thought it would be. A big fat zero taunts her with the knowledge that she should have worked harder to find the solution instead of openly snogging Draco Malfoy in the courtyard.
“Truth be told,” Vector says while taking the problems up. “I had a feeling you would all do poorly on this assignment. Yes, yes, I understand you are unhappy with me, but please allow me to explain, if I can.”
She leans back against her desk and pauses before crossing her arms over her magenta coloured robes.
“Question four asked you to predict the outcome of a disagreement between two kings over who had proper claim to a plot of land. Information was provided about these men and a third person, Merlin the Wise, who served as an advisor to the conflict and would have held considerable ability to influence the parties involved. Were they to go to war or settle the dispute amicably? What were your answers? Ms Granger?”
Hermione uncharacteristically shrinks back in her seat.
“I-I didn’t get a proper answer, Professor. My reading of the scenario must have been wrong.”
Vector smiles kindly. “Not exactly wrong, Hermione. But unfortunately I was unable to award you any part marks. In fact, I admit I was unable to award anyone part marks. What was the problem with your reading, Ms Patil?”
“I don’t know,” the dark-haired girl answers with wide eyes. “A bunch of us checked our answers together. And, well, we thought perhaps you forgot to provide enough information?”
Vector chuckles. “Actually, I was concerned I’d provided too much. Does anyone have any other ideas?”
The small group of ten students remain quiet.
“Very well then. Here is the truth. Your answers to question four were supposed to be wrong.”
There is a collective gasp. Hermione immediately sits up straighter in her seat, her mouth open in indignation. Vector continues.
“...and they were supposed to be wrong because despite everything you have been taught, numerology is not an exact science, and it has limited uses. Tthe reason you haven’t been asked to divine an outcome is because numerology is not used to divine outcomes. It is only used for personality and character readings.
“So what is the reason for that?” Vector asks, beginning a slow walk between their seats. “Why is arithmancy, like every other form of divination, predictably unpredictable? Why were your answers so far off the mark?”
At first there is only the silence of deep thought and rustling of parchment as some students look to their notes for the answer.
“Free will,” Draco says from the back of the classroom, and everyone shuffles in their seats to look back. “Those people in your scenario can make any number of choices. The more people involved in a scenario with the ability to influence its outcome, the more variation there will be in your reading.”
“Very good, Mr Malfoy. Too bad you didn’t come to that conclusion in time for your assignment. But can we compensate for free will in our interpretations? Do our numerology charts allow for an unpredictability factor?”
There are murmurs, and some of the students pull out their numerology charts. Vector waits for them to come to their conclusions. Hermione looks at the numbers of her chart and notes that every number has specific uses, concrete interpretations. Then she looks up and watches Vector looking at each of her students in turn and becomes aware that there is a lesson to this. And she raises her hand.
“Yes, Ms Granger?”
“Then what is the answer to question four? Were we to assume some of those choices and provide multiple interpretations?”
Vector gazes steadily back. “You were not to assume anything. There is no answer to question four."
“But there has to be an answer,” Hermione blurts without thinking, heat rising in her face. “Every problem has an answer if you look hard enough for it.”
“If you tried to find an answer for that particular problem, Ms Granger, you’d have to use an inherently flawed method of numerology or make an educated guess. What good is your prediction then? Guesswork is dangerous when people are putting their faith in an arimantic reading.”
Hermione slumps back in her seat and stares at her problem set, feeling a tight ball of frustration in her stomach.
“The correct answer for number four,” Vector concludes, “was ‘this question is unanswerable’. You may be dismissed.”
Reluctantly, Hermione collects her things. As the class filters out, she finds it uncomfortable to meet Draco’s eyes. He appears to have been affected by Vector’s lecture as well, and perhaps, she thinks, it’s because of what all this talk about free will has reminded him of. As soon as she steps out into the hall ahead of him, she can’t resist to urge to spin around.
“There’s always an answer,” she says passionately. “Don’t believe that rubbish.”
Draco blinks at her with a face of stone.
“You don’t, do you? Please tell me you don’t.” Urgently grabbing his hand despite the number of people milling about in the hall, she looks up into his face and grows aware of the pounding of her heart.
When he doesn’t immediately answer, she tries to read his expression and thinks, once again, of anthroposomancy.
The interpretation of a person’s face.
Her stomach seizes.
Draco Malfoy sneers coldly and wrenches his hand from her grasp. “What do you care, mudblood? The only problem I want an answer for is how to get filth like you away from me.”
Before she can fully register the shock, Malfoy violently brushes past her, bumping her with his shoulder so hard that she loses her balance and falls into someone who is walking by.
It happens so fast that she feels as if the wind has been knocked out of her, but through it, there is only a raw, unexpected hurt and the realization that she was very wrong. Neville Longbottom grapples for her waist and hauls her unsteadily to her feet.
“You alright, Hermione?”
Dazed, she stares at Neville and remembers that day in Divination class only weeks earlier.
“I-I have to go,” she says, a waver in her voice, unable to withstand the horrible ache in her chest. “P-please don’t tell Harry, he’ll worry.”
Blindly she turns and starts to walk away as fast she can, then remembers her book bag and is forced to go back for it. Neville watches her, his face broken.
Without a firm idea of where she’s headed and knowing only that she needs to get away, Hermione breaks out into a run.
She rushes through the halls, down six long flights of stairs and past the Great Hall. Here and there along the way, she passes groups of students clustered together in their house colours. It is all she can do to keep going and then, sliding to a stop at the end of the first floor corridor, she finds herself outside of classroom eleven. Without thought, she bursts in.
“Firenze! Firenze! Are you here? Please, Firenze!”
After a long moment, the blonde centaur appears in front of her, causing her to skid to a sudden stop.
“Yes?”
She looks into his blue eyes, the clearest blue she’s ever seen, and sees the universe.
“How come the teachers never tried to lift that curse?” she gasps, her chest tight.
“Which curse do you speak of?”
“The curse, the opposing houses curse! It’s stupid. It’s…stupid! I hate it!” Her voice cracks.
Firenze takes in her messy, emotional appearance. “Come.”
He leads her off the yellowed path of stone towards a familiar enclove of trees. There, he gestures for her to sit, so she kneels in the grass, her feet tucked beneath her skirt. He looks down on her kindly.
“What is wrong, young one?”
“Did you know all this was going to happen?” she says, her throat burning. “Is that why you picked me to laugh for Malfoy’s spell that day in class?”
Firenze just looks at her for the longest time and then sighs deeply. “You are very smart for your age. I cannot say I did not know what I was doing.”
“But why?” she asks, astonished. “Why would you meddle in the affairs of humans?”
“It was not meddling,” Firenze replies. “It was what my contemplations revealed was to happen. I merely did not interfere.”
To Hermione’s horror, she begins to cry. Reflexively she digs her fingers into the soil and tugs the grass over and over. “Then tell me what else is going to happen, since you clearly know. Is Harry going to die? Is Ron?”
Firenze stills her movements by placing a hand over both of hers. “Do not ask of me what you know I cannot give.”
“But why?” she says, her voice cracking. “Is it because you like that we’re oblivious to what’s going to happen? Do you enjoy it when we hurt? Please, Firenze. I need to know. Tell me our side’s going to win!”
Her breath hitches.
“Young one.” Firenze reaches out to touch the bark of one of the honey-coloured oak trees. “Touch here with me.”
Hermione looks up into the leaves overhead and feels a delirious urge to laugh through the tears blurring her vision. She twists on her knees in the grass and reaches out to touch rough, knotted bark. Her fingers spread as wide as they can.
“Do you not feel the hope within?”
“No,” she mutters, sniffing. “It’s just a tree.”
“Just a tree? No. You see, nothing is so simple as that. Did you know that centaurs are born blind? Our young walk for the first time with unseeing eyes. Often we fall, trip over what we do not know is in the way. Your kind is also born blind, and that is how it must be or you risk never learning of your relationship with the Heavens. You must seek a greater wisdom for yourselves, and learn from your trials, to understand that in life and death, there is a connectiveness between us all. How would you be able to show how terrible men like your dark lord are, if you have not suffered at their hands? That is why I cannot tell you what will happen in your war. I cannot be your oracle.”
She pauses for a moment, getting her heartbeat under control. “Don’t we have a right to know what is going to happen?”
The smile falters on his face. “It is not the way of my kind. We do not take sides.”
“You did,” Hermione disputes. “Maybe you didn’t mean to, but you took sides by coming here when Dumbledore asked you to.”
Firenze adjusts his position in the grass. He looks away, an expression of grave worry on his face. “You are right. I chose to do what I felt must be done. But though my kind saw that as betrayal, it remains that there is still choice in this world, and through your choices you can do many things.”
She has to turn her face to whisper her next question. “What are Draco’s choices?
“His troubles are unknown to me. But, in the end, he will choose to do what he thinks he must.”
“But Firenze,” she says, her voice wavering with passion. “He might choose wrong.”
“There is no such thing as a right or wrong choice. There is only the choice that one makes.”
The trees rustle overhead and somewhere in the room, a bird calls for its partner.
“There is no opposing house spell, is there?” she states flatly, letting the realization wash over her. A pang of bitterness and shame makes her hide her face.
At first, Firenze says nothing, rising to his feet with some effort and stamping his hooves lightly in the forest floor. Then he looks down to her with kind eyes. “No, young one. There is not. But you may want to ask yourself whether that matters, when it appears the students of Hogwarts are so willing to believe it.”
With a shake of his palomino tail, he waves his hand and a night sky appears, bringing darkness to the forest. He trots off and disappears between the thicket of trees, leaving Hermione alone with her thoughts.
It is only when she is sure he is gone that she lies down on the grass and cries.
_ _ _ _ _
By the end of the school year, Hermione Granger will understand a great many things better.
She will understand why Harry became so good at Potions with the aid of that old, tattered textbook. She will understand why Malfoy was so ill this year, why he turned down his Prefect status, why he became interested in distracting himself. She will understand how it feels to be betrayed, for Malfoy will use her own cleverness against them and she will hate herself for somehow allowing it.
She should have been more cautious. She should have told Harry and Ron. She should have known better than to feel so much.
There are so many things she should and should not have done.
By the end of the school year, Hermione Granger will realize how naïve she’d been, how easily she’d wanted it to be true. It will make her feel young, stupid and deeply embarrassed. No matter how much she might like to confide in a friend, she won’t be able to bring herself to admit what happened and then they’ll all be too consumed with grief and despair for it to seem like it ever could have mattered. She will feel a tremendous guilt.
She will cry over another boy later that year, for reasons she’s been aware of but never acted upon.
Then she will begin to understand what Firenze meant about life, death and the undeniable connection that exists between everything. Because she will see how Dumbledore lives on in Harry after he has gone. And since Harry lives through his friends, through Ginny and Hagrid and Luna and Neville and so many others too numerous to mention, Dumbledore will live on through all of them. It will make her fiercely proud.
Hermione Granger will not have the opportunity to take another Divination class. She will never know if Malfoy actually had the gift to be a Seer.
Once summer arrives, she will take the first opportunity to borrow a copy of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz and read it in one sitting. Then she’ll walk bare-foot into the grassy fields that hide the Burrow from the eyes of muggles and make a scarecrow out of some old clothes, a burlap sack, a roll of twine and a lot of dried grass. She will transfigure her red Gryffindor tie into Slytherin green, since she won't be needing it anymore, and tie it around the scarecrow’s neck.
Harry, Ron and Ginny will love it and refuse to let Mrs Weasley take it down. They’ll dive at it repeatedly when they play pick-up quidditch, seeing it as Snape, seeing it as Draco, seeing it as Bellatrix Lestrange, Lucius Malfoy and Tom Riddle. It’s just a scarecrow, she’ll declare. Not nearly as good or strong as the one in the book. And she and Harry will tell Ron and Ginny the story. About the Cowardly Lion, looking for courage. About the Tin Man, built without a heart. About Dorothy who was trying to find her way home. About the Great Wizard of Oz who was supposed to be able to give them those things, but instead was as powerless and lost as anyone else.
About the Scarecrow, mindless Scarecrow, whose greatest desire was to have a brain.
Crows will immediately perch on its outstretched arms, unbothered. The group of friends will be forced to forget about it when they must abandon their summer to horcruxes and an angry war.
_ _ _ _ _
“Who are you?" asked the Scarecrow when he had stretched himself and yawned. "And where are you going?"
"My name is Dorothy," said the girl, "and I am going to the Emerald City, to ask the Great Oz to send me back to Kansas."
"Where is the Emerald City?" he inquired. "And who is Oz?"
"Why, don't you know?" she returned, in surprise.
"No, indeed. I don't know anything. You see, I am stuffed, so I have no brains at all," he answered sadly.
"Oh," said Dorothy, "I'm awfully sorry for you."
"Do you think," he asked, "if I go to the Emerald City with you, that Oz would give me some brains?"
"I cannot tell," she returned, "but you may come with me, if you like. If Oz will not give you any brains you will be no worse off than you are now."
_ _ _ _ _
{finis}
Final Author Notes: Full credit to L. Frank Baum for his book, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. The passage that finishes this story is from Chapter 3: How Dorothy Saved the Scarecrow. It is available online at www.literature.org. The rest of the story comes from a stupid fluffy scene that got stuck in my head once, of Draco being forced to make Hermione laugh against her will, and it predictably changing things between them. Totally cliché, totally cute, totally the stuff of an uninspired romantic comedy. I’m ashamed.
Assignment:
BRIEFLY describe what you'd like to receive: I simply request that there be outdoor lovin' of some kind (snogging, shagging, whatever...as long as they are outside)
What rating would you prefer? Doesn't matter. You have carte blanche.
Deal Breakers (what don't you want?): The sky's the limit.
Thank-you for participating in the Hot Summer Nights with Draco and Hermione exchange.
Title: Scarecrow
Author: eucalyptus
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Word Count: ~ 14,000
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine.
Category: Some fluff. Some humour. Some angst. Some romance. Much randomness.
Author Notes: Eek. Well, this story is about as bipolar as it gets. Not sure how I feel about it. It is ineligible for any voting.
Summary: Hermione Granger learns first-hand the inner workings of the human heart. AU story that works loosely within HBP canon.
Scarecrow -- Part 2 of 2
Though autumn comes with the turning of leaves and the dampening of the ground and the whistling of crisp wind, some remnants of summer remain. It becomes difficult to find a quiet place to study as students get busier, and one evening on the heels of an abnormally warm day, Hermione finds herself studying in the depths of the Great Hall, cranky from the seasonal highs she can’t remember her childhood having. A few fine hairs at the nape of her neck, too short to have made it into the ponytail, curl in the humidity and stick to her sweat-soaked skin. As curfew approaches, she pours over an arithmancy assignment, hastily calculating and recalculating the assigned problems.
Every problem has a solution, she thinks, pouring over her library texts like she might forget how to read at any moment.
But this night of all nights, the first time she has chosen to work in the Great Hall after classes in all her years at Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy passes through the door with his book bag slung over his shoulder. The wide auditorium is pretty much empty and he has his choice of any number of seats. Hermione shoves her book in her face and pretends she hasn’t noticed him, all the while trying to still her beating heart.
His footsteps are steady as he crosses the hall. Then, to her utter surprise, he slides into the seat directly across from her.
She is instantly too aware of him to do any actual homework.
For the longest time she makes a fervent attempt to appear like she hasn’t noticed him. He does the same, taking his texts out and haphazardly sprawling his things across the table. She notices that he has changed out of his uniform into lighter clothes and immediately regrets that she didn’t go back to the dorms after class to do the same.
It is inevitable that they speak to each other, since that was undoubtedly Malfoy’s intention when he chose to sit with her, but she can’t think of a bloody thing to say. Oh, but if only he didn’t make her so nervous! This is all because he kissed her, she thinks with no small measure of annoyance. It’s different now, and no matter how badly she wants it, she can’t summon any of the poise she used to have around him.
Her quill poised on the edge of her parchment, she opens her mouth to speak then closes it again, all the while keeping her eyes turned away.
For his part, Malfoy says nothing as he rustles in his bag and gets to down to work. A hollow silence fills the space between them for several minutes.
Eventually she works up the nerve to look at him over the top of her parchment, and when she catches him looking, Malfoy hastily averts his eyes.
“That the Arithmancy problems for tomorrow?” he blurts, breaking the silence.
Relief floods her senses. She clears her throat. “Yes.”
“Can I see them?”
She slides the paper across to him. Malfoy pushes the hair out of his face and screws his face up in concentration as he reads through her work. She takes the opportunity to study him. He looks no different than he has all year, but he is different nonetheless; the same dark circles, the same pale face, but now that she is closer, as close as she’s been since that day in the forested Divination classroom, she can see that he has lost weight. His shirt is noticeably too big for him and there is something off about the glassy sheen of his eyes. His hair is the texture and colour of straw.
“I can’t figure out number four either,” he says eventually, passing it back. “It’s like I can hear Vector in my head, giving the lecture, but no matter how much I try I can’t remember what she said. Does that make sense?”
“Yes.”
It is all she can manage to say. Inwardly Hermione groans at herself. She collects her parchment back from him and again pretends to work, but intuitively she can feel Malfoy’s eyes on her and it makes goosebumps rise on her skin.
“What?” She looks up at him. His face flushes a pale pink and for the longest time he doesn’t answer.
Finally his jaw tightens and his words come out in a rush.
“It didn’t work, you know.”
“What?” she says, then her face floods with colour at the memory. “Oh. You mean…you’re still distracted?”
He toys with the clasp of his leather book bag, carefully not looking at her. “Well,” he mutters, “a different kind of distracted.”
And her stomach jumps up into her throat.
“I didn’t realize I was so fascinating,” she says to herself, bewildered and embarrassed, but also secretly pleased.
Malfoy snorts, deeply interested in the wooden clasp. “You have no idea, Gryffindor.”
It is only with a herculean effort that Hermione manages to hold back the smile threatening to split her face in two. She has to turn her face down to hide her struggle.
“Can you check my work?” he says, suddenly jumping back to business. “I’ve got the alternate set, so only the last question is the same. I had to do it in a rush, you see. Not all of us have as much time on their hands as you.”
And oh, she can see his words for what they are and as a result she isn’t bothered by his sharp tongue in the slightest.
“Honestly, it’s one excuse after another for you lot.” She heaves a great sigh and holds out her hand. “Of course, I’ll look at it. Give it here.”
He passes her the scroll. “You’re bossy,” says Malfoy with a touch of a sneer. “I bet that’s why you like being Prefect so much.”
“Stop talking,” she instantly orders, only half-joking.
There is a brief pause.
“Intense too.”
Something about the way he says this draws her attention. Hermione warily looks up, and when their eyes meet, even though she can’t decipher the casual expression on his face, his eyes darken in a look she is unfamiliar with. And she knows without a doubt that it’s not a malevolent look but a different sort of look altogether, one that she finds herself reacting to like she's been hit by a shockwave.
It takes a huge effort to turn away.
As she bends over his work, Malfoy mutters something about getting something to eat and wanders off.
There is something scholarly about checking another student’s work that appeals to Hermione’s sense of academics. To her, this is the best forum for education - students helping students so the lot of them achieve together -- so she starts methodically working through Malfoy’s Arithmancy assignment. The first problem is a traditional numerological reading of a person of the student’s choice, and Hermione agrees with Malfoy’s numeric results and analysis. The following two questions work in reverse, with the numbers and analysis provided first for an unidentified historical figure (answer: Nicholas Flamel) and then an unidentified event in history (answer: the 14th century witch burnings). But it is the last problem that stumps her. This is the question that is also on her problem set. It asks the student to predict the outcome of a described scenario.
No matter how many times she reads through his answer and recalculates it using her numerology chart, she keeps coming back to the same set of numbers. Unfortunately, it is clear that the numbers are wrong, because the corresponding interpretation makes no sense in the context of the scenario.
Eventually she throws it all down in a huff, extremely irritated.
“That’s not real food,” she says later when Malfoy returns. The Great Hall carries her voice across to him as he enters through the door and walks over.
Malfoy takes the sugar quill from his mouth. “Yeah, it is. I’m eating it, aren’t I?”
“But it has no nutritional value.”
“Sugar is a nutrient.” He lazily sucks on the quill again, mild amusement showing on his face.
“Sugar is not a nutrient, you git,” she replies, simply because she can’t help herself. “You know, if you’d gone to the kitchens and asked nicely, the house elves might have made you a proper meal.”
“You want it?” He sits beside her and shoves the wet sugar quill in her face.
“Ugh, no.” Hermione recoils and tries to push it away without touching it, making him laugh crudely. “I don’t eat sweets. It’s bad for your health.”
“You’re bad for my health.”
“Good one," she deadpans, "even though it made no sense at all."
Malfoy shrugs. “Talk to me about Arithmancy.”
“Oh, right.” She pushes his paper across the table. “They’re all correct -- except the last. We got the same answer.”
“Let me guess,” he sighs, his voice laced with sarcasm. “You don’t know why it’s wrong, just that it is.”
Hermione frowns. “Yes, and it’s driving me absolutely crazy. I mean, if you read the scenario given, the provided outcome should result in a circumstance-oriented analysis, not pinnacles and phases of expression.”
“Then it’s the numbers, not the interpretation of the numbers,” Malfoy responds automatically. “They’ve got be to be wrong.”
“But I’ve checked them loads of times, so it’s not how they’ve been calculated. We’ll find the answer, I know we will. There’s always a way.”
They exchange a look.
“I’m turning it in like that,” Malfoy mutters. “It’s not worth enough to bellyache over.” He sits back, his arm lazily propped on the table.
A few seconds pass, and then an idea pops into her head.
“I wonder how Peeves is doing,” she says carefully, aware that she is trying manipulate him. “Did he snitch on you?”
“Of course not, he knows better than-- ”
Malfoy abruptly shuts up and gives her a shrewd look.
A comfortable silence follows. With the glow of candles lost to the starlight of the false sky, Hermione chooses to ask him something she knows she shouldn’t.
“Draco…” Her lips clumsily form his first name. “If you needed help for any reason, you’d ask for it. Wouldn’t you?”
He stiffens, and her heart pounds like a jackhammer in her chest. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him dart in towards her, rising from his seat.
This time she catches him with her wand to his chest.
“What are you doing?” she asks breathlessly, turned towards him.
“I’m trying to kiss you,” he mutters, leaning in again.
“No, my question.” She pushes on his shoulder with her other hand and he colours.
“I don’t need help!” Malfoy says, sneering. “I don’t need anyone’s help, least of all yours!”
“I’m not offering, you idiot. I’m just asking!”
They engage in a fierce staring contest and then Malfoy throws himself to his feet and starts shoving his books into his bag.
“YES, Granger. I would get help if I needed it.” His face contorts in annoyance and barely restrained anger.
Hermione hurriedly collects her stuff as well and follows him out. It is nearly curfew anyway. She rushes to keep up with his longer stride and passes through the oak doors of the Great Hall hot on his heels.
“Malfoy, stop.”
He doesn’t. And to her surprise, he ignores the stairs that lead to the dungeon, instead turning down the corridor of classrooms. She blindly follows, nearly running to keep up.
“Wait.”
Then he turns right at the very end, pushes through the door, and they exit out into the courtyard.
“Draco, wait. You can’t go outside now, it’s against school rules. Stop. STOP.”
Just as she’s about to lunge in front of him, Draco comes to a sudden halt and turns around. He’s breathing hard. Her eyes travel swiftly over the planes of his face, the lines of his neck, the hard slope of his shoulders, trying to gauge his mood, his next words, his intentions.
And dropping his book bag, he grabs hold of her by her shoulders and deliberately guides her back and to the right, into the shadows.
They stumble together up against the exterior wall of the castle. He is so close to her that her stomach flip flops. And before he gets the chance, she boldly takes his head in her hands and catches his lips with hers.
It starts awkwardly, their movements out of sync. Her neck bends back too far due to the height difference, smacking the wall and causing her to drop her own book bag with a loud thump. In response, he makes a sound low in his throat and slows the pace, moving his mouth softly against hers. She begins to hear everything as an observer might, all too aware of the otherwise quiet of the courtyard. There is the sound of crickets and a light breeze. Secretly she opens her eyes and peeks around to find the courtyard empty. Then they find a rhythm.
These kisses are lazy and slow. Hermione opens her mouth without hesitation and touches her tongue to his, drawing him into her mouth. As he presses closer, clumsily wrapping an arm around her waist, she angles her chin to the right for deeper access. He appears to appreciate this and hums low in his throat.
It is then that she realizes how warm it is outside. She is forced to focus on her breathing, and after a few minutes, they are gasping for air.
Hermione presses her hand against his face, then skims her hand over the sharp angle of his jaw to the nape of his neck. Draco grins against her mouth and slides his other hand down her pleated skirt to touch high up the back of her leg. When she bends her leg at the knee, he pulls it up around his hip and suddenly she remembers where they are.
Instantly she pushes him back.
“We ha-have to go,” Hermione stammers, flushed and breathless. “It’s curfew.” Her hands are on his chest and she can feel his heart beneath her hands, pounding hard.
Draco swallows and cups the back of her thigh, eyes unfocused. “Not yet.”
A surge of pleasure rushes through her and she drops her voice to a whisper. “I suppose I could stay five more minutes…if you tell me what’s wrong.”
As soon as the words are out, she wishes there was a way she could take them back. Draco recoils, putting a distance between them.
And Hermione, a roaring in her ears, watches the way he carefully composes himself, the way he paints a cold expression on his face, and she braces herself against the wall and is hit with the realization that she is right, she is right. She knows it more confidentally than anything she has studied, anything she has learned, anything she has read and observed and been taught. She knows it like she knows how to read. She knows it like she knows that it is hot outside. She can feel it, intuitively, instinctively, without doubt.
He wants to switch to the side of the Light.
“Stop,” he orders with an uncharacteristic waver in his voice. “Stop thinking something’s wrong with me. Stop asking me questions.”
“But--”
“It’s not your business and I don’t intend to tell you, so just be a good girl and keep distracting me.”
“I thought you didn’t want the distraction.”
He blinks. “I changed my mind.”
“Well, you can’t order me around,” she mutters. “What if I don’t want to?”
He growls in frustration and closes his eyes. “Hermione. Please.”
A part of her wants to tell him that she understands, that she can help him switch sides, that she can convince Harry and Ron and everyone else that he can be trusted, but she doesn’t trust herself to say it the way it needs to be said, especially when he is trying so hard to keep it a secret.
“I just want to help,” she mutters in a tiny voice.
He laughs, almost bitterly, and pulls her face right next to his. “Trust me, you’re helping.”
“No, I’m not. I’m…just a distraction.”
He sends her a lazy smile. “I don’t see the problem. I’m trying not to think here.”
“Shut up.” She smiles and feels her face go hot.
“You’re blushing.”
“I am not, shut up.”
“Only if you skip Potions with me tomorrow.”
Her stomach flutters. “What? No way, I can’t.”
“Come on,” he whispers, kissing her. “I bet you’ve never skipped a class before. Isn’t my personal welfare worth it?”
“Draco.” She is unable to suppress a gasp as he slides his hand up to the very top of her leg under her skirt. “Draco, we can’t, it’s against school rules. ”
“I hate to tell you this, but this is against school rules too.”
She bites her lip. “No, this is different.”
“How?”
“It’s much harder to be discovered. Someone would actually have to catch us out here to get in any trouble. But Slughorn would notice if we both were missing from Potions unexpectedly, and the same is true for Arithmancy. They’re not big classes. Plus, my friends know I don’t skip. They’d probably assume something horrible had happened and go straight to Dumbledore, after which there’d be this big, public search we couldn't possibly hide from. Dumbledore has ways to track his students. Portraits and maps and ghosts. They’d KNOW right away we were together, Plus, I’m still a Prefect. I can’t skip class. Maybe...maybe we could just see each other when we get the chance. If you want to, that is.”
He groans with frustration, then flashes her a look of annoyance. As consolation, she wraps her arms around his neck and places hot kisses on his face. “Sorry,” she whispers.
“You don’t play fair. Fine. No skipping Potions.” He buries his head in the crook of her neck and she feels him breathe hot little puffs of air on her collarbone.
It makes her shiver. She muffles a girlish laugh and draws him closer.
Suddenly a door nearby opens with a loud crack, and they flinch. Damn.
“Someone’s coming.”
His head snaps up and they hurriedly disentangle, scrambling for their book bags and bidding a hasty, incomplete goodbye. The courtyard is bathed in the soft blue glow of moonlight.
As they head in opposite directions, Hermione touches her fingers to her lips. She will have to take the long way around to the dormitory. The rumple of her clothing is embarrassing enough, and as she enters the castle through another door, she tugs at them frantically, trying to get herself in order before anyone sees her and guesses what she’s been up to. That doesn’t stop her from smiling to herself. When she goes inside and makes it to entrance hall, she can’t help but peek down the stairs that lead to the dungeons, and way below she spies Draco heading downward, hastily fixing his hair. In the time it has taken for them to get this far apart, he has been joined by some of his Slytherin housemates.
The smile falters on her face. It must be hard for him, she thinks, feeling a pang of sadness.
She wants to be able to believe that she’s got good reasons, that she should be allowed to do this one thing, for once, and that she’s definitely able to keep herself grounded. But the only thing she knows is that she’s awfully confused and feeling too many things at once. And if anyone were to ask if she were in over her head, she would be lying if she didn’t say yes.
_ _ _ _ _
Hermione will later wonder if she knew that it would end badly. She will wonder if some small part of her had already accepted that it couldn’t work, that there weren’t enough reasons in the world for them to be anything but enemies. Because if there was anyone in her life she could have called an enemy, that person could easily have been Draco. And if she was capable of truly hating anyone, then surely she could have hated him, as much as she hates Dolores Umbridge and Rita Skeeter and Bellatrix Lestrange.
The next day, she is walking up a set of staircases to the Gryffindor dormitory when she spots Malfoy a story above, heading down on a path that will take her directly past him. Her chest warms with pleasure and since the halls are deserted enough, she figures she can probably stop and say hello.
But no sooner has she stepped foot on the next staircase then there is a great, ear-splitting groan. She stumbles and screams out as the whole thing lifts up in the air, is forced to scramble for one of the handrails. It moves and she squeezes her eyes shut. Then the world spins. Just as she thinks she can’t hold on any longer, it reaches the opposite side of the turret and comes to a loud, jolting stop.
When she opens her eyes, she finds herself as far from Draco as she can possibly get. Short of breath, she unsteadily climbs to her feet.
He stares across at her with a similar expression of shock on his face. The students know the staircases don’t usually move with students on them. Prefects only warn first years about it so they’ll be prepared to take alternate routes to class -- not because there’s supposed to be any actual danger.
Hermione pushes her hair behind her eyes and self-consciously starts collecting her books. She tries to steady her frazzled nerves.
It’s the castle, she thinks, taking a deep breath and resuming her trek to the dormitory. When she glances back at Draco, she notices that the portraits hanging on the wall are staring at her -- their faces frozen, carefully expressionless. And she knows the castle is alive in them, through them, and it makes her mouth go dry.
Though she doesn’t quite know why, she begins to speed up.
Later that day, when Draco tugs her into an empty classroom, a dirt yellow ceramic urn inexplicably topples over on the teacher’s desk. They barely make it out before a thick cloud of tiny Persian beetles escape from it and swarm them.
It happens again the next day, an entire bookshelf tipping over when they’re snogging in the stacks. To Hermione’s horror, Madam Pince and about thirty doe-eyed first years on a tour nearly catch them in the act. One of the larger books topples from the highest shelf and smacks her on the back of the head, giving her a headache and a lump the size of an orange.
It quickly becomes clear that if they are to continue whatever they have become, they will have to put some effort into it. That is easier said than done, however, because Hermione is reluctant to have the conversation in the first place. There is some element of a power struggle in whatever is happening between them and the last thing she wants is to admit that she wants something before he does. At the very least, she is sure that she wants to continue. He makes her forget the coming war and her worries for Harry, as little sense as that might make, since the very idea of them together is still so bizarre that she doesn’t feel like herself when they are together. So she sidles up beside him in Potions while collecting ingredients -- eye of newt, wing of bat, powdered beetle dung -- and asks the question.
“What should we do?” she whispers, chewing her lip. “Go to Dumbledore? Surely he can lift the spell.”
Draco shakes his head imperceptibly, keeping his face turned away. “If he didn’t want it to be this way, he’d have already lifted it.”
“But Dumbledore wouldn’t try to keep students apart.”
“Who’s to say he wouldn’t? I bet he would.”
Draco walks away without allowing her to answer, a beaker clutched in each of his hands. The conversation leaves her uneasy. When Harry shoots her a questioning look, she shakes her head and hastily returns to her desk, trying to quell the blush rising in her cheeks.
_ _ _ _ _
On Friday, she stares at Draco across the Arithmancy classroom and decides that he looks like a scarecrow dressed in a school uniform, his hair the same colour as sunbleached hay, his shoulders narrow, his body longlimbed. The nickname appeals to her. She imagines herself to be Dorothy in red ruby slippers.
That day, Professor Vector passes back the arithmancy homework.
Hermione sees the grade at the top of the piece of parchment and feels her stomach drop. She was given a low B. It is one of the lowest grades she has received since coming to Hogwarts. The first three questions received full marks, so it is question four that is wrong, as she thought it would be. A big fat zero taunts her with the knowledge that she should have worked harder to find the solution instead of openly snogging Draco Malfoy in the courtyard.
“Truth be told,” Vector says while taking the problems up. “I had a feeling you would all do poorly on this assignment. Yes, yes, I understand you are unhappy with me, but please allow me to explain, if I can.”
She leans back against her desk and pauses before crossing her arms over her magenta coloured robes.
“Question four asked you to predict the outcome of a disagreement between two kings over who had proper claim to a plot of land. Information was provided about these men and a third person, Merlin the Wise, who served as an advisor to the conflict and would have held considerable ability to influence the parties involved. Were they to go to war or settle the dispute amicably? What were your answers? Ms Granger?”
Hermione uncharacteristically shrinks back in her seat.
“I-I didn’t get a proper answer, Professor. My reading of the scenario must have been wrong.”
Vector smiles kindly. “Not exactly wrong, Hermione. But unfortunately I was unable to award you any part marks. In fact, I admit I was unable to award anyone part marks. What was the problem with your reading, Ms Patil?”
“I don’t know,” the dark-haired girl answers with wide eyes. “A bunch of us checked our answers together. And, well, we thought perhaps you forgot to provide enough information?”
Vector chuckles. “Actually, I was concerned I’d provided too much. Does anyone have any other ideas?”
The small group of ten students remain quiet.
“Very well then. Here is the truth. Your answers to question four were supposed to be wrong.”
There is a collective gasp. Hermione immediately sits up straighter in her seat, her mouth open in indignation. Vector continues.
“...and they were supposed to be wrong because despite everything you have been taught, numerology is not an exact science, and it has limited uses. Tthe reason you haven’t been asked to divine an outcome is because numerology is not used to divine outcomes. It is only used for personality and character readings.
“So what is the reason for that?” Vector asks, beginning a slow walk between their seats. “Why is arithmancy, like every other form of divination, predictably unpredictable? Why were your answers so far off the mark?”
At first there is only the silence of deep thought and rustling of parchment as some students look to their notes for the answer.
“Free will,” Draco says from the back of the classroom, and everyone shuffles in their seats to look back. “Those people in your scenario can make any number of choices. The more people involved in a scenario with the ability to influence its outcome, the more variation there will be in your reading.”
“Very good, Mr Malfoy. Too bad you didn’t come to that conclusion in time for your assignment. But can we compensate for free will in our interpretations? Do our numerology charts allow for an unpredictability factor?”
There are murmurs, and some of the students pull out their numerology charts. Vector waits for them to come to their conclusions. Hermione looks at the numbers of her chart and notes that every number has specific uses, concrete interpretations. Then she looks up and watches Vector looking at each of her students in turn and becomes aware that there is a lesson to this. And she raises her hand.
“Yes, Ms Granger?”
“Then what is the answer to question four? Were we to assume some of those choices and provide multiple interpretations?”
Vector gazes steadily back. “You were not to assume anything. There is no answer to question four."
“But there has to be an answer,” Hermione blurts without thinking, heat rising in her face. “Every problem has an answer if you look hard enough for it.”
“If you tried to find an answer for that particular problem, Ms Granger, you’d have to use an inherently flawed method of numerology or make an educated guess. What good is your prediction then? Guesswork is dangerous when people are putting their faith in an arimantic reading.”
Hermione slumps back in her seat and stares at her problem set, feeling a tight ball of frustration in her stomach.
“The correct answer for number four,” Vector concludes, “was ‘this question is unanswerable’. You may be dismissed.”
Reluctantly, Hermione collects her things. As the class filters out, she finds it uncomfortable to meet Draco’s eyes. He appears to have been affected by Vector’s lecture as well, and perhaps, she thinks, it’s because of what all this talk about free will has reminded him of. As soon as she steps out into the hall ahead of him, she can’t resist to urge to spin around.
“There’s always an answer,” she says passionately. “Don’t believe that rubbish.”
Draco blinks at her with a face of stone.
“You don’t, do you? Please tell me you don’t.” Urgently grabbing his hand despite the number of people milling about in the hall, she looks up into his face and grows aware of the pounding of her heart.
When he doesn’t immediately answer, she tries to read his expression and thinks, once again, of anthroposomancy.
The interpretation of a person’s face.
Her stomach seizes.
Draco Malfoy sneers coldly and wrenches his hand from her grasp. “What do you care, mudblood? The only problem I want an answer for is how to get filth like you away from me.”
Before she can fully register the shock, Malfoy violently brushes past her, bumping her with his shoulder so hard that she loses her balance and falls into someone who is walking by.
It happens so fast that she feels as if the wind has been knocked out of her, but through it, there is only a raw, unexpected hurt and the realization that she was very wrong. Neville Longbottom grapples for her waist and hauls her unsteadily to her feet.
“You alright, Hermione?”
Dazed, she stares at Neville and remembers that day in Divination class only weeks earlier.
“I-I have to go,” she says, a waver in her voice, unable to withstand the horrible ache in her chest. “P-please don’t tell Harry, he’ll worry.”
Blindly she turns and starts to walk away as fast she can, then remembers her book bag and is forced to go back for it. Neville watches her, his face broken.
Without a firm idea of where she’s headed and knowing only that she needs to get away, Hermione breaks out into a run.
She rushes through the halls, down six long flights of stairs and past the Great Hall. Here and there along the way, she passes groups of students clustered together in their house colours. It is all she can do to keep going and then, sliding to a stop at the end of the first floor corridor, she finds herself outside of classroom eleven. Without thought, she bursts in.
“Firenze! Firenze! Are you here? Please, Firenze!”
After a long moment, the blonde centaur appears in front of her, causing her to skid to a sudden stop.
“Yes?”
She looks into his blue eyes, the clearest blue she’s ever seen, and sees the universe.
“How come the teachers never tried to lift that curse?” she gasps, her chest tight.
“Which curse do you speak of?”
“The curse, the opposing houses curse! It’s stupid. It’s…stupid! I hate it!” Her voice cracks.
Firenze takes in her messy, emotional appearance. “Come.”
He leads her off the yellowed path of stone towards a familiar enclove of trees. There, he gestures for her to sit, so she kneels in the grass, her feet tucked beneath her skirt. He looks down on her kindly.
“What is wrong, young one?”
“Did you know all this was going to happen?” she says, her throat burning. “Is that why you picked me to laugh for Malfoy’s spell that day in class?”
Firenze just looks at her for the longest time and then sighs deeply. “You are very smart for your age. I cannot say I did not know what I was doing.”
“But why?” she asks, astonished. “Why would you meddle in the affairs of humans?”
“It was not meddling,” Firenze replies. “It was what my contemplations revealed was to happen. I merely did not interfere.”
To Hermione’s horror, she begins to cry. Reflexively she digs her fingers into the soil and tugs the grass over and over. “Then tell me what else is going to happen, since you clearly know. Is Harry going to die? Is Ron?”
Firenze stills her movements by placing a hand over both of hers. “Do not ask of me what you know I cannot give.”
“But why?” she says, her voice cracking. “Is it because you like that we’re oblivious to what’s going to happen? Do you enjoy it when we hurt? Please, Firenze. I need to know. Tell me our side’s going to win!”
Her breath hitches.
“Young one.” Firenze reaches out to touch the bark of one of the honey-coloured oak trees. “Touch here with me.”
Hermione looks up into the leaves overhead and feels a delirious urge to laugh through the tears blurring her vision. She twists on her knees in the grass and reaches out to touch rough, knotted bark. Her fingers spread as wide as they can.
“Do you not feel the hope within?”
“No,” she mutters, sniffing. “It’s just a tree.”
“Just a tree? No. You see, nothing is so simple as that. Did you know that centaurs are born blind? Our young walk for the first time with unseeing eyes. Often we fall, trip over what we do not know is in the way. Your kind is also born blind, and that is how it must be or you risk never learning of your relationship with the Heavens. You must seek a greater wisdom for yourselves, and learn from your trials, to understand that in life and death, there is a connectiveness between us all. How would you be able to show how terrible men like your dark lord are, if you have not suffered at their hands? That is why I cannot tell you what will happen in your war. I cannot be your oracle.”
She pauses for a moment, getting her heartbeat under control. “Don’t we have a right to know what is going to happen?”
The smile falters on his face. “It is not the way of my kind. We do not take sides.”
“You did,” Hermione disputes. “Maybe you didn’t mean to, but you took sides by coming here when Dumbledore asked you to.”
Firenze adjusts his position in the grass. He looks away, an expression of grave worry on his face. “You are right. I chose to do what I felt must be done. But though my kind saw that as betrayal, it remains that there is still choice in this world, and through your choices you can do many things.”
She has to turn her face to whisper her next question. “What are Draco’s choices?
“His troubles are unknown to me. But, in the end, he will choose to do what he thinks he must.”
“But Firenze,” she says, her voice wavering with passion. “He might choose wrong.”
“There is no such thing as a right or wrong choice. There is only the choice that one makes.”
The trees rustle overhead and somewhere in the room, a bird calls for its partner.
“There is no opposing house spell, is there?” she states flatly, letting the realization wash over her. A pang of bitterness and shame makes her hide her face.
At first, Firenze says nothing, rising to his feet with some effort and stamping his hooves lightly in the forest floor. Then he looks down to her with kind eyes. “No, young one. There is not. But you may want to ask yourself whether that matters, when it appears the students of Hogwarts are so willing to believe it.”
With a shake of his palomino tail, he waves his hand and a night sky appears, bringing darkness to the forest. He trots off and disappears between the thicket of trees, leaving Hermione alone with her thoughts.
It is only when she is sure he is gone that she lies down on the grass and cries.
_ _ _ _ _
By the end of the school year, Hermione Granger will understand a great many things better.
She will understand why Harry became so good at Potions with the aid of that old, tattered textbook. She will understand why Malfoy was so ill this year, why he turned down his Prefect status, why he became interested in distracting himself. She will understand how it feels to be betrayed, for Malfoy will use her own cleverness against them and she will hate herself for somehow allowing it.
She should have been more cautious. She should have told Harry and Ron. She should have known better than to feel so much.
There are so many things she should and should not have done.
By the end of the school year, Hermione Granger will realize how naïve she’d been, how easily she’d wanted it to be true. It will make her feel young, stupid and deeply embarrassed. No matter how much she might like to confide in a friend, she won’t be able to bring herself to admit what happened and then they’ll all be too consumed with grief and despair for it to seem like it ever could have mattered. She will feel a tremendous guilt.
She will cry over another boy later that year, for reasons she’s been aware of but never acted upon.
Then she will begin to understand what Firenze meant about life, death and the undeniable connection that exists between everything. Because she will see how Dumbledore lives on in Harry after he has gone. And since Harry lives through his friends, through Ginny and Hagrid and Luna and Neville and so many others too numerous to mention, Dumbledore will live on through all of them. It will make her fiercely proud.
Hermione Granger will not have the opportunity to take another Divination class. She will never know if Malfoy actually had the gift to be a Seer.
Once summer arrives, she will take the first opportunity to borrow a copy of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz and read it in one sitting. Then she’ll walk bare-foot into the grassy fields that hide the Burrow from the eyes of muggles and make a scarecrow out of some old clothes, a burlap sack, a roll of twine and a lot of dried grass. She will transfigure her red Gryffindor tie into Slytherin green, since she won't be needing it anymore, and tie it around the scarecrow’s neck.
Harry, Ron and Ginny will love it and refuse to let Mrs Weasley take it down. They’ll dive at it repeatedly when they play pick-up quidditch, seeing it as Snape, seeing it as Draco, seeing it as Bellatrix Lestrange, Lucius Malfoy and Tom Riddle. It’s just a scarecrow, she’ll declare. Not nearly as good or strong as the one in the book. And she and Harry will tell Ron and Ginny the story. About the Cowardly Lion, looking for courage. About the Tin Man, built without a heart. About Dorothy who was trying to find her way home. About the Great Wizard of Oz who was supposed to be able to give them those things, but instead was as powerless and lost as anyone else.
About the Scarecrow, mindless Scarecrow, whose greatest desire was to have a brain.
Crows will immediately perch on its outstretched arms, unbothered. The group of friends will be forced to forget about it when they must abandon their summer to horcruxes and an angry war.
_ _ _ _ _
“Who are you?" asked the Scarecrow when he had stretched himself and yawned. "And where are you going?"
"My name is Dorothy," said the girl, "and I am going to the Emerald City, to ask the Great Oz to send me back to Kansas."
"Where is the Emerald City?" he inquired. "And who is Oz?"
"Why, don't you know?" she returned, in surprise.
"No, indeed. I don't know anything. You see, I am stuffed, so I have no brains at all," he answered sadly.
"Oh," said Dorothy, "I'm awfully sorry for you."
"Do you think," he asked, "if I go to the Emerald City with you, that Oz would give me some brains?"
"I cannot tell," she returned, "but you may come with me, if you like. If Oz will not give you any brains you will be no worse off than you are now."
_ _ _ _ _
{finis}
Final Author Notes: Full credit to L. Frank Baum for his book, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. The passage that finishes this story is from Chapter 3: How Dorothy Saved the Scarecrow. It is available online at www.literature.org. The rest of the story comes from a stupid fluffy scene that got stuck in my head once, of Draco being forced to make Hermione laugh against her will, and it predictably changing things between them. Totally cliché, totally cute, totally the stuff of an uninspired romantic comedy. I’m ashamed.
Assignment:
BRIEFLY describe what you'd like to receive: I simply request that there be outdoor lovin' of some kind (snogging, shagging, whatever...as long as they are outside)
What rating would you prefer? Doesn't matter. You have carte blanche.
Deal Breakers (what don't you want?): The sky's the limit.
Thank-you for participating in the Hot Summer Nights with Draco and Hermione exchange.