Eight and Eighth--Chapter 7
Title: Eight and Eighth
Author: Marmalade Fever
Characters: Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger, and more.
Genres: Romance, Drama, weird combo of in-Hogwarts and post-Hogwarts
Spoilers: DH (though no epilogue)
Overall Rating: PG-13
Summary: Up from the ashes of seventh year grow the roses of the eighth. Eight students return for their final year at Hogwarts, and Hermione Granger would never have thought Draco Malfoy would or could be one of those roses.
8 & 8th-Chapter 7-Who Are You and Who Are You Not?
By Marmalade Fever (duh)
Hermione felt as if her eyeballs were about to fall out. Ever since Arithmancy, every class she’d had with Draco Malfoy had resulted in what was essentially a battle of wits, with Hermione doing everything within her power to not allow him to get ahead of her. Which was why she was now sitting in the Eighth Year common room, studying as much as humanly possible, her eyes dry, her back sore, and her bum, well, numb.
The door opened, and Hannah walked in, a frown on her face. “I think Padma is about to drive me batty,” she announced, setting her bag down on the floor in front of the fireplace. “Did you see the note she left on the mirror this morning?”
“No,” Hermione replied, slipping her bookmark into her Charms book, which she was now three-quarters of the way through. Not bad for two hours. “I left before any of you got up.”
Hannah groaned. “It said, and I quote, ‘Towels should be neatly folded and returned to the towel bar. We all have responsibilities; let’s keep that in mind, shall we?’”
Hermione furrowed her brow, which was already throbbing from squinting at her book. “I suppose she was overreacting a little,” she agreed.
“And then there was the note she left in the shower itself,” Hannah continued. “That one said, ‘Please keep shampoo bottles in their designated areas.’ Was Parvati that bad?”
“Well, no… Parvati was actually a bit of a slob.”
Hannah snorted. “I think I know why.” She reached into her pocket and removed another note, handing it to Hermione.
“‘I feel disrespected when there are hairs in the drain. Please remember to be courteous and clean them up after you shower. Thank you,’” Hermione read, wrinkling her nose.
“That one was on my pillow!” Hannah screeched.
“What was on your pillow?” They turned, Malfoy’s blond head emerging from the spiral staircase in the corner of the room.
Hannah didn’t answer him, instead turning back to Hermione. “It’s taking every gram of decorum I have left not to write a nasty note back to her.”
“Hufflepuffs have decorum? I didn’t know that word was even in your vocabulary,” he remarked, crossing to sit on the sofa. He pulled out his own Charms book, and Hermione was happy to see that he was still relatively close to the middle of it. Granted, anyone else probably would still be on the first chapter.
Hannah did turn then, and she sneered. “Malfoy, I’m in a foul enough humor already. Don’t make me curse you.”
He scoffed. “In the presence of the Deputy Head Girl? Or whatever your title is, Granger,” he added.
Hannah paused, casting a wary look toward Hermione. “You wouldn’t dock points, would you?” she asked.
Hermione set her book down on the floor and looked carefully between Hannah, who was looking angry enough already, and Malfoy, who was looking just as smug as he usually did. “Well,” she said slowly, “it would depend on what you did and what he did to provoke you.”
Hannah was standing there, puzzling over Hermione’s answer. “So, you mean to say you’d take his side over mine?” she growled.
“Well, no,” Hermione quickly remedied, “it’s just that it’s my job to be fair, and….”
“And you’d take his side over mine!” Hannah repeated. The honey-blonde was turning red in the face. “Him, the Death Eater! You’ve seen that metal thing hanging off his wrist! He should be in Azkaban, for crying out loud!”
Hermione stood, her book falling off her lap and onto the floor. “And that ‘metal thing’ is a part of his punishment! You very well know that it’s not fair that he should be attacked when he’s utterly defenseless like this!”
“Defenseless?” Malfoy raged, now standing up as well. “Granger, I may not have my magic outside of classes, but I’m not bloody well defenseless. If I wanted to get back at her, I could! I don’t need you defending me.”
“You just did use me to defend you, you spineless git!” Hermione spat. “Now everyone, calm down! I am going to go back to my reading, and I expect to be left in peace!”
Hannah yanked Padma’s note out of Hermione’s hand before stomping down the spiral stairs, and both Hermione and Malfoy were forced to jump when the dormitory door slammed closed.
“I’m not defenseless,” Malfoy repeated in a growl. “And your book is upside-down,” he added.
Hermione gritted her teeth before righting her Charms book and returning to the chapter on bewitchment. Out of the very corner of her dry eye, she saw him watching her, but then he shook his head and went back to his reading.
O
Hermione glanced at her watch. Fifteen minutes. It was now fifteen minutes after her appointment time, and still Professor Amorell had not shown up. She’d down some rune translations, finished chapter seven of her Transfiguration book, and was now tapping her foot rapidly against the stone tiles. Another ten minutes went by, and Hermione began to panic.
Punctuality was very important to her, and it looked as if Professor Amorell had probably forgotten that she had a Grief-Counseling session today. Checking her watch yet again, Hermione finally pulled a piece of parchment from her bag, wrote a note explaining what had happened, and left for the library.
O
The weekend went by in a whirl of textbooks for Hermione. Ron had tried in vain to convince her to take a trip into Hogsmeade. He’d even offered to go into “That infernal Puddifoot’s shop.” Harry and Dean had finally pulled him away to play a game of two-on-two Quidditch with Ginny, laughing about Hermione’s homework habits.
And now Monday had come at last, and Hermione, for the second time, was now sitting in her Good-Grief class, as Ginny had finally suggested after her session that same morning.
“Good afternoon, everyone,” Amorell greeted them. Her bare toes were painted a flashy shade of fuchsia, and she wore a hemp anklet. The eight members of the class grumbled an unhappy “good afternoon” to her as she sat cross-legged on her desk. “I have a new activity prepared for you all.”
Hermione groaned. The word activity, in this class, was not a word she was very pleased to hear.
“Everyone split up with your partners. Very good. Now, here’s what I want you to do. I want you to have a little discussion. Dialoguing, it’s the key to communication.” She smiled brightly. “I want you to tell your partner how you identify yourself. Who are you? Are you an artist? What labels would you give yourself?
“Second, and this is a little more difficult, I want you to say who you aren’t. Who is it that you don’t identify yourself as? For example, I might say that I am not a coward. Everyone understand? Good.” She clapped her hands.
With all due reluctance, Hermione turned toward Malfoy. They scowled at one another. “Well, this is stupid,” he said, his voice only lowered enough to keep it out of Amorell’s earshot.
“I’d have to agree,” Hermione replied. “Well, let’s start with the obvious. I am a Gryffindor, as if you didn’t know that already.”
“Really? I am so surprised,” he said blandly. “I’m a Slytherin and a Pureblood. I am not a Gryffindor, nor am I a Muggle-born.” He gave her a tiny mock bow, looking annoyed.
“And I am a Muggle-born, but I’m not a Slytherin, a Pureblood, or-” she cut herself off, blushing furiously as two things came to her mind at once.
“Or?” he prodded.
Hermione opened her mouth partway, pausing. “You said muggle-born.”
“And we’re in class. I’m not completely moronic, you know.” He looked at her for a moment, tilting his head to the side. “But that’s not why you stopped. What aren’t you, Granger, hmm?” He steepled his fingers, something about his tone and posture crying out a warning to her.
Hermione shook her head, suddenly nervous. “Let’s just move on….”
“No!” He slammed his hands down onto the desk separating them. “Tell me.”
She took a slow breath. “Fine. If you’re going to be petulant, I’ll tell you. But you won’t like it. I know that already.”
“Out with it, Granger.”
“I was going to say that I’m not a Death Eater. Are you happy now?”
Malfoy squeezed his fists together so tightly that they first turned a violent shade of pink before turning eerily white. But then he relaxed them.
“I told you you wouldn’t like it,” she stated quietly.
He took a slow calming breath, his eyes closing momentarily, his lashes splayed above his cheeks. When his eyes finally did open… he didn’t look angry. Instead, and this was what truly frightened her, he looked sad. His eyes were somewhat glassy, tiny red veins appearing in the whites. “Name something else,” he demanded bitterly.
“Something else?”
“Something else you either are or aren’t.”
Hermione bit her lip, fidgeting in her seat. “Well, I’m a book lover.”
He nodded. “Okay, me too. Name another.”
“I’m an intellectual.”
He snorted. “Ditto.” He had, a moment ago, closed his eyes again, but now they opened. “Enjoying our little battle of wits, by the way?”
Hermione wasn’t sure she’d ever been so relieved to have him acting smug. “Not particularly. What’s your game, anyway?”
He smirked. “I don’t know if I’d call it a game. But if it is, would you say I’m winning?”
She pursed her lips. “I’d say you’re nipping at my heels.”
He laughed. “Fair enough. I suppose I can’t get you to relinquish your title that easily, now can I?”
“So, let me get this straight. You’re trying to beat me intellectually. But what I’m not entirely sure of is why. It can’t be that much fun for you to do all of that extra work.”
His smirk broadened. “No, but the reward is very nice.”
“Reward?” she queried.
“Well, receiving the honor of beating you, and, heh, getting to see the look on your face as I do.”
Hermione rested her chin against her knuckles, looking at him speculatively. The bare hint of shininess had left his eyes, and his coloring had evened out again. His hair was gelled back as usual, which, for reasons she’d rather not think about, disappointed her a little. “We’re getting off topic. Who are you and who are you not?”
“I’m filthy rich and not begging for crumbs, like some people.”
Hermione followed his gaze across the room to where Ron was sitting. He and August were arguing in hushed tones. Brown eyes turned back to gray. “I’m middle to upper-class, but I’m not a snob.”
“Middle to upper-class?”
She shrugged. “We muggles have a class system too, you know. And currency.”
“But to upper-class? What in Merlin do your parents do?”
“They clean, repair, and straighten teeth. It’s a form of healing, very well-paid.”
“Is that what those things on your teeth were?” he asked.
“My braces. They were for straightening.” She flashed him a quick smile to show off her teeth.
O
Draco wasn’t sure why, but the moment Granger smiled at him, something within his stomach flip-flopped in a most unsettling way. He knew her teeth weren’t bucktoothed anymore, and yet the contrast still threw him off. And then there was the fact that she was smiling at him… and not in derision, either.
She looked, dare he think it, not bad. Well, not bad enough that he could understand why Weasley, who was not generally known to have wonderful taste, might have wanted to pursue her.
But the smile was gone again within the course of half a second. “Is that what those clunky pieces of metal were called?” he asked. “Most unbecoming. Off-topic again.”
“And whose fault is that?” She shook her head, her masses of unkempt curls bouncing.
“Certainly not mine. Come on, Granger, another am or am not.”
She scowled. “I am…” she paused, thinking, “I’m…. Oh, I don’t know, you come up with something.”
“I never thought I’d hear the words ‘I don’t know’ come out of your mouth.”
“Fine,” she spat, stopping to think again. “I’m a cat-lover.”
“Oh, so that’s your mangy flea ball I keep stepping on in the common room.”
Her eyebrows lowered. “Crookshanks is not a mangy flea ball, thank you very much.”
“Well, I don’t rightly know if he has fleas, Granger, but you and he could both use a good brushing.”
She stood up. “Hey!”
Just then, Amorell approached them, smiling as usual. “Is there a problem?” Quick as a wink, she changed tacts. “Oh, Miss Granger, I wanted to talk to you about rescheduling your counseling session. It seems that I’m thoroughly booked, but I think I can squeeze you into a double-session.”
Draco watched curiously as Granger grimaced. “A double-session?” she asked.
“Oh yes,” Amorell confirmed. “It’s simple, really. You and another student will be counseled at the same time.”
“At the same…?” Granger began, but the loopy professor had walked off to grab her chart. However juvenile it might be, Draco stuck his tongue out, and Granger scowled, her nose wrinkling up.
Amorell returned and ran a finger down the list of grief counseling session dates. “Let’s see… aha, perfect.” She looked up at them both. “Mr. Malfoy is scheduled for the nineteenth. It might be nice to have the two of you go together, seeing how you’re already partners here. How does that sound?”
Neither of them thought it sounded good, and their voices overlapped as they protested. “No! I mean, I don’t think that’s such a good idea. We don’t get along, and, well-”
“You’re barking if you think we’d get counseling together! What, do you think we’re a bloody married couple?”
“It’d be very embarrassing on both our parts. Isn’t this in violation of our privacy?”
“I’d rather have detention with Filch and his thumb-screws than-”
“Please don’t make us! Please! Anyone else. Ron, for example! Wait, no, not Ron. Um… Ginny! Yes, Ginny Weasley!”
“I don’t want to be in counseling in the first place!”
“The nineteenth is my birthday, anyway. You wouldn’t make me get counseling on my birthday, would you?”
“Your birthday? On second thought, I’m in. Might be fun to ruin her special day.”
Amorell placed her fingers in her mouth and whistled. “Shush! My goodness, I think the two of you really do need to have counseling together!” She placed her hands on her willowy hips, looking the most distraught that anyone at Hogwarts had yet seen her. “You will have counseling together, and no, it is not in violation of your privacy according to school codes. You are both to come to my office at four in the afternoon on the nineteenth. And because that is your birthday, Miss Granger, maybe I’ll bring fairy cakes for the both of you. Okay? Okay.”
She clapped her hands and turned to the class. “Read chapter three of your book and write ten inches on your findings from this activity. Class dismissed.”
O
A.N. Sadly, that activity was based on something I had to do in class two weeks ago. Isn’t that torture supposed to end after high school? Also, please forgive me for this, but I made up a rhyme!
Unless you really truly rue it, if you read it, please review it!
Please click the tag for a list of chapters.
<< >>
Author: Marmalade Fever
Characters: Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger, and more.
Genres: Romance, Drama, weird combo of in-Hogwarts and post-Hogwarts
Spoilers: DH (though no epilogue)
Overall Rating: PG-13
Summary: Up from the ashes of seventh year grow the roses of the eighth. Eight students return for their final year at Hogwarts, and Hermione Granger would never have thought Draco Malfoy would or could be one of those roses.
8 & 8th-Chapter 7-Who Are You and Who Are You Not?
By Marmalade Fever (duh)
Hermione felt as if her eyeballs were about to fall out. Ever since Arithmancy, every class she’d had with Draco Malfoy had resulted in what was essentially a battle of wits, with Hermione doing everything within her power to not allow him to get ahead of her. Which was why she was now sitting in the Eighth Year common room, studying as much as humanly possible, her eyes dry, her back sore, and her bum, well, numb.
The door opened, and Hannah walked in, a frown on her face. “I think Padma is about to drive me batty,” she announced, setting her bag down on the floor in front of the fireplace. “Did you see the note she left on the mirror this morning?”
“No,” Hermione replied, slipping her bookmark into her Charms book, which she was now three-quarters of the way through. Not bad for two hours. “I left before any of you got up.”
Hannah groaned. “It said, and I quote, ‘Towels should be neatly folded and returned to the towel bar. We all have responsibilities; let’s keep that in mind, shall we?’”
Hermione furrowed her brow, which was already throbbing from squinting at her book. “I suppose she was overreacting a little,” she agreed.
“And then there was the note she left in the shower itself,” Hannah continued. “That one said, ‘Please keep shampoo bottles in their designated areas.’ Was Parvati that bad?”
“Well, no… Parvati was actually a bit of a slob.”
Hannah snorted. “I think I know why.” She reached into her pocket and removed another note, handing it to Hermione.
“‘I feel disrespected when there are hairs in the drain. Please remember to be courteous and clean them up after you shower. Thank you,’” Hermione read, wrinkling her nose.
“That one was on my pillow!” Hannah screeched.
“What was on your pillow?” They turned, Malfoy’s blond head emerging from the spiral staircase in the corner of the room.
Hannah didn’t answer him, instead turning back to Hermione. “It’s taking every gram of decorum I have left not to write a nasty note back to her.”
“Hufflepuffs have decorum? I didn’t know that word was even in your vocabulary,” he remarked, crossing to sit on the sofa. He pulled out his own Charms book, and Hermione was happy to see that he was still relatively close to the middle of it. Granted, anyone else probably would still be on the first chapter.
Hannah did turn then, and she sneered. “Malfoy, I’m in a foul enough humor already. Don’t make me curse you.”
He scoffed. “In the presence of the Deputy Head Girl? Or whatever your title is, Granger,” he added.
Hannah paused, casting a wary look toward Hermione. “You wouldn’t dock points, would you?” she asked.
Hermione set her book down on the floor and looked carefully between Hannah, who was looking angry enough already, and Malfoy, who was looking just as smug as he usually did. “Well,” she said slowly, “it would depend on what you did and what he did to provoke you.”
Hannah was standing there, puzzling over Hermione’s answer. “So, you mean to say you’d take his side over mine?” she growled.
“Well, no,” Hermione quickly remedied, “it’s just that it’s my job to be fair, and….”
“And you’d take his side over mine!” Hannah repeated. The honey-blonde was turning red in the face. “Him, the Death Eater! You’ve seen that metal thing hanging off his wrist! He should be in Azkaban, for crying out loud!”
Hermione stood, her book falling off her lap and onto the floor. “And that ‘metal thing’ is a part of his punishment! You very well know that it’s not fair that he should be attacked when he’s utterly defenseless like this!”
“Defenseless?” Malfoy raged, now standing up as well. “Granger, I may not have my magic outside of classes, but I’m not bloody well defenseless. If I wanted to get back at her, I could! I don’t need you defending me.”
“You just did use me to defend you, you spineless git!” Hermione spat. “Now everyone, calm down! I am going to go back to my reading, and I expect to be left in peace!”
Hannah yanked Padma’s note out of Hermione’s hand before stomping down the spiral stairs, and both Hermione and Malfoy were forced to jump when the dormitory door slammed closed.
“I’m not defenseless,” Malfoy repeated in a growl. “And your book is upside-down,” he added.
Hermione gritted her teeth before righting her Charms book and returning to the chapter on bewitchment. Out of the very corner of her dry eye, she saw him watching her, but then he shook his head and went back to his reading.
O
Hermione glanced at her watch. Fifteen minutes. It was now fifteen minutes after her appointment time, and still Professor Amorell had not shown up. She’d down some rune translations, finished chapter seven of her Transfiguration book, and was now tapping her foot rapidly against the stone tiles. Another ten minutes went by, and Hermione began to panic.
Punctuality was very important to her, and it looked as if Professor Amorell had probably forgotten that she had a Grief-Counseling session today. Checking her watch yet again, Hermione finally pulled a piece of parchment from her bag, wrote a note explaining what had happened, and left for the library.
O
The weekend went by in a whirl of textbooks for Hermione. Ron had tried in vain to convince her to take a trip into Hogsmeade. He’d even offered to go into “That infernal Puddifoot’s shop.” Harry and Dean had finally pulled him away to play a game of two-on-two Quidditch with Ginny, laughing about Hermione’s homework habits.
And now Monday had come at last, and Hermione, for the second time, was now sitting in her Good-Grief class, as Ginny had finally suggested after her session that same morning.
“Good afternoon, everyone,” Amorell greeted them. Her bare toes were painted a flashy shade of fuchsia, and she wore a hemp anklet. The eight members of the class grumbled an unhappy “good afternoon” to her as she sat cross-legged on her desk. “I have a new activity prepared for you all.”
Hermione groaned. The word activity, in this class, was not a word she was very pleased to hear.
“Everyone split up with your partners. Very good. Now, here’s what I want you to do. I want you to have a little discussion. Dialoguing, it’s the key to communication.” She smiled brightly. “I want you to tell your partner how you identify yourself. Who are you? Are you an artist? What labels would you give yourself?
“Second, and this is a little more difficult, I want you to say who you aren’t. Who is it that you don’t identify yourself as? For example, I might say that I am not a coward. Everyone understand? Good.” She clapped her hands.
With all due reluctance, Hermione turned toward Malfoy. They scowled at one another. “Well, this is stupid,” he said, his voice only lowered enough to keep it out of Amorell’s earshot.
“I’d have to agree,” Hermione replied. “Well, let’s start with the obvious. I am a Gryffindor, as if you didn’t know that already.”
“Really? I am so surprised,” he said blandly. “I’m a Slytherin and a Pureblood. I am not a Gryffindor, nor am I a Muggle-born.” He gave her a tiny mock bow, looking annoyed.
“And I am a Muggle-born, but I’m not a Slytherin, a Pureblood, or-” she cut herself off, blushing furiously as two things came to her mind at once.
“Or?” he prodded.
Hermione opened her mouth partway, pausing. “You said muggle-born.”
“And we’re in class. I’m not completely moronic, you know.” He looked at her for a moment, tilting his head to the side. “But that’s not why you stopped. What aren’t you, Granger, hmm?” He steepled his fingers, something about his tone and posture crying out a warning to her.
Hermione shook her head, suddenly nervous. “Let’s just move on….”
“No!” He slammed his hands down onto the desk separating them. “Tell me.”
She took a slow breath. “Fine. If you’re going to be petulant, I’ll tell you. But you won’t like it. I know that already.”
“Out with it, Granger.”
“I was going to say that I’m not a Death Eater. Are you happy now?”
Malfoy squeezed his fists together so tightly that they first turned a violent shade of pink before turning eerily white. But then he relaxed them.
“I told you you wouldn’t like it,” she stated quietly.
He took a slow calming breath, his eyes closing momentarily, his lashes splayed above his cheeks. When his eyes finally did open… he didn’t look angry. Instead, and this was what truly frightened her, he looked sad. His eyes were somewhat glassy, tiny red veins appearing in the whites. “Name something else,” he demanded bitterly.
“Something else?”
“Something else you either are or aren’t.”
Hermione bit her lip, fidgeting in her seat. “Well, I’m a book lover.”
He nodded. “Okay, me too. Name another.”
“I’m an intellectual.”
He snorted. “Ditto.” He had, a moment ago, closed his eyes again, but now they opened. “Enjoying our little battle of wits, by the way?”
Hermione wasn’t sure she’d ever been so relieved to have him acting smug. “Not particularly. What’s your game, anyway?”
He smirked. “I don’t know if I’d call it a game. But if it is, would you say I’m winning?”
She pursed her lips. “I’d say you’re nipping at my heels.”
He laughed. “Fair enough. I suppose I can’t get you to relinquish your title that easily, now can I?”
“So, let me get this straight. You’re trying to beat me intellectually. But what I’m not entirely sure of is why. It can’t be that much fun for you to do all of that extra work.”
His smirk broadened. “No, but the reward is very nice.”
“Reward?” she queried.
“Well, receiving the honor of beating you, and, heh, getting to see the look on your face as I do.”
Hermione rested her chin against her knuckles, looking at him speculatively. The bare hint of shininess had left his eyes, and his coloring had evened out again. His hair was gelled back as usual, which, for reasons she’d rather not think about, disappointed her a little. “We’re getting off topic. Who are you and who are you not?”
“I’m filthy rich and not begging for crumbs, like some people.”
Hermione followed his gaze across the room to where Ron was sitting. He and August were arguing in hushed tones. Brown eyes turned back to gray. “I’m middle to upper-class, but I’m not a snob.”
“Middle to upper-class?”
She shrugged. “We muggles have a class system too, you know. And currency.”
“But to upper-class? What in Merlin do your parents do?”
“They clean, repair, and straighten teeth. It’s a form of healing, very well-paid.”
“Is that what those things on your teeth were?” he asked.
“My braces. They were for straightening.” She flashed him a quick smile to show off her teeth.
O
Draco wasn’t sure why, but the moment Granger smiled at him, something within his stomach flip-flopped in a most unsettling way. He knew her teeth weren’t bucktoothed anymore, and yet the contrast still threw him off. And then there was the fact that she was smiling at him… and not in derision, either.
She looked, dare he think it, not bad. Well, not bad enough that he could understand why Weasley, who was not generally known to have wonderful taste, might have wanted to pursue her.
But the smile was gone again within the course of half a second. “Is that what those clunky pieces of metal were called?” he asked. “Most unbecoming. Off-topic again.”
“And whose fault is that?” She shook her head, her masses of unkempt curls bouncing.
“Certainly not mine. Come on, Granger, another am or am not.”
She scowled. “I am…” she paused, thinking, “I’m…. Oh, I don’t know, you come up with something.”
“I never thought I’d hear the words ‘I don’t know’ come out of your mouth.”
“Fine,” she spat, stopping to think again. “I’m a cat-lover.”
“Oh, so that’s your mangy flea ball I keep stepping on in the common room.”
Her eyebrows lowered. “Crookshanks is not a mangy flea ball, thank you very much.”
“Well, I don’t rightly know if he has fleas, Granger, but you and he could both use a good brushing.”
She stood up. “Hey!”
Just then, Amorell approached them, smiling as usual. “Is there a problem?” Quick as a wink, she changed tacts. “Oh, Miss Granger, I wanted to talk to you about rescheduling your counseling session. It seems that I’m thoroughly booked, but I think I can squeeze you into a double-session.”
Draco watched curiously as Granger grimaced. “A double-session?” she asked.
“Oh yes,” Amorell confirmed. “It’s simple, really. You and another student will be counseled at the same time.”
“At the same…?” Granger began, but the loopy professor had walked off to grab her chart. However juvenile it might be, Draco stuck his tongue out, and Granger scowled, her nose wrinkling up.
Amorell returned and ran a finger down the list of grief counseling session dates. “Let’s see… aha, perfect.” She looked up at them both. “Mr. Malfoy is scheduled for the nineteenth. It might be nice to have the two of you go together, seeing how you’re already partners here. How does that sound?”
Neither of them thought it sounded good, and their voices overlapped as they protested. “No! I mean, I don’t think that’s such a good idea. We don’t get along, and, well-”
“You’re barking if you think we’d get counseling together! What, do you think we’re a bloody married couple?”
“It’d be very embarrassing on both our parts. Isn’t this in violation of our privacy?”
“I’d rather have detention with Filch and his thumb-screws than-”
“Please don’t make us! Please! Anyone else. Ron, for example! Wait, no, not Ron. Um… Ginny! Yes, Ginny Weasley!”
“I don’t want to be in counseling in the first place!”
“The nineteenth is my birthday, anyway. You wouldn’t make me get counseling on my birthday, would you?”
“Your birthday? On second thought, I’m in. Might be fun to ruin her special day.”
Amorell placed her fingers in her mouth and whistled. “Shush! My goodness, I think the two of you really do need to have counseling together!” She placed her hands on her willowy hips, looking the most distraught that anyone at Hogwarts had yet seen her. “You will have counseling together, and no, it is not in violation of your privacy according to school codes. You are both to come to my office at four in the afternoon on the nineteenth. And because that is your birthday, Miss Granger, maybe I’ll bring fairy cakes for the both of you. Okay? Okay.”
She clapped her hands and turned to the class. “Read chapter three of your book and write ten inches on your findings from this activity. Class dismissed.”
O
A.N. Sadly, that activity was based on something I had to do in class two weeks ago. Isn’t that torture supposed to end after high school? Also, please forgive me for this, but I made up a rhyme!
Unless you really truly rue it, if you read it, please review it!
Please click the tag for a list of chapters.
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