Eight and Eighth--Chapter 12
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, and Humor. I can't write a fanfic without humor leaking its way in.
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.
Eight and Eighth-Chapter 12-Inky Blobs
Hermione’s eyes were puffy by the time she left the dormitory in the morning. Ron was sitting in the common room with two cups of coffee, waiting for her. “Here,” he said, offering one to her.
She couldn’t meet his eye, but she accepted the cup and sat down on one of the large chairs. “Thanks.”
He let go of a long, rattling breath. “I’m so confused. I thought we were doing okay. I barely slept last night,” he added, slouching into the back of the sofa.
“Neither did I.” She took a sip. He’d added too much cream and sugar, and she thought for a moment that he might have given her his by accident, but from the looks of it, his was just as pale.
“Look,” he said, setting his cup on the floor in front of him. “I don’t think you’re making the right decision. So… so I’m going to make a request.”
“And what’s that?” she asked. Her voice was hoarse.
“Keep wearing my bracelet. To remind you of me.” He looked up at her then, pleading with her through his eyes. “I haven’t said it enough, I know, but, Hermione-I love you. I don’t want to lose you.”
She nodded. “I love you, too, Ron. I’m just not sure if I love you in the right way.”
“I’m really sorry about what happened,” he added. “Just, please, don’t give up on me?” He stood and strode out of the room, and Hermione glanced down first at his abandoned cup of coffee and then at the gleaming silver ermine on her wrist. Weasel, she corrected. An ermine was a type of weasel.
There were footfalls on the stairs, and she didn’t bother trying to hide her swollen eyes. A blond head appeared, and Malfoy paused to look at her before he left the common room.
The charm also looked like a ferret.
O
Ginny was frowning from her seat when Hermione finally came down to breakfast. Ron wasn’t there. He must have come down earlier to get the coffee. “So?” she asked.
Hermione nodded as she filled her plate. Today was going to be awkward. That much was apparent.
Harry was stifling a yawn. “Why’s everyone so tense?” he asked, slouching so his head went into his hand.
Ginny sent Hermione a glare. “Tell him.”
Hermione bit her lip before turning to Harry. He hated it when she and Ron fought, and this was, well, more than just a fight. “R-ron,” her voice cracked, “and I are finished,” she mumbled.
Harry sat up straighter. “You… what? You ended it? Why?”
She squirmed. “Well….”
“Ron kissed that Moon girl,” Ginny grumbled. “Or so says Malfoy, anyway.”
“Ron confirmed it,” Hermione mumbled. She pushed away her plate. She wasn’t especially hungry after all. “Plus, there are some other issues that made up my mind,” she added for Harry’s benefit.
Harry looked downright confused. “But he can’t stand August. Why would he…?”
“I don’t know, Harry. The point is that he did.” This entire conversation was making her feel ill. “Do you think maybe we could change the subject? Er, Ginny, why don’t you tell Harry what you told me about those Hogwarts crest rings?”
“Oh, right.” Ginny reached into her bag and pulled out a flyer, scooting it closer to Harry. “You know my ring-size,” she added with a wink.
The relief on Harry’s face was almost tangible. “Christmas on your mind?” he asked. Ginny nodded, pleased about clearing up the confusion. “Good.” He smiled at the red-head, who actually tugged him forward and kissed him.
Hermione, meanwhile, blushed and turned away. There was something very uncomfortable about watching people kissing, especially when those people are two of your good friends. She sneaked a peek over at the Hufflepuff table, where August was crammed between a First Year and a Seventh Year, both of whom were taller than her. She seemed oblivious enough to the Gryffindor table. Hannah sat across from her, chatting about something with animated hand gestures.
At the Ravenclaw table, Padma was currently talking to Flitwick, who had stopped alongside her. Granted, all Hermione could see from her position was his hat.
Dean sat down at the other end of the Gryffindor table, talking to this year’s Quidditch coach, a gangly-looking Fifth Year.
That was six of eight Eighth Years accounted for. Ron, thankfully, was elsewhere, and number eight was Malfoy, who had his back turned to a very peeved Astoria Greengrass and was reading a book, which looked suspiciously like Grieving for the Soul.
There was a sound of smacking as Harry and Ginny came up for air, and Hermione turned back to them again. “So, Harry, any thoughts on whether you’ll be the next Chuddley Cannons Seeker?” she asked, surprised at her own daring to bring up Quidditch. At least it was a distraction from the happy couple.
Harry opened his mouth and closed it again. “Um. Well, I, you know-your breaking things off with Ron, er.” He stopped, looking horrified.
“Go on, Harry,” she mumbled.
“Makes me feel caught in the middle,” he finished.
“That’s nothing unusual,” Hermione said, somewhat guiltily.
“Er, right.” Harry was fiddling with his fork. “Well, see, if I join that means Ron’ll be happy, but you and Gin-”
“Will be left here alone,” Hermione finished.
“But it’d also mean I wouldn’t be able to finish the year. On the other hand, it’d be incredible to be a professional Seeker, but then again, it’s the,” he coughed, “Cannons. But that doesn’t mean it wouldn’t be great if Ron and I got them into shape,” he added with an embarrassed smile.
“And then there’s McGonagall’s offer,” Hermione prompted, the little twinge of guilt awake inside of her.
“Yeah,” Harry agreed, “and then there’s that.” He groaned, and Ginny patted his back.
“When is the final decision about the Seeker position made?” This was from a nondescript Seventh Year named Eldric Moore, whom none of them had realized had been listening in.
“November First,” Harry answered, shrugging.
Hermione paused. “Harry, you do realize today’s Halloween?”
“Yeah, so?”
She almost wanted to laugh. “Therefore, today is October Thirty-first; therefore, tomorrow is November First.”
Harry looked as if he’d been bitten. “Do you ever think one month when it’s really a different one? Oh, hang it all. I have to go make a decision.” He stood, looking apologetically at Hermione. “I’d better go talk things over with Ron.” With that, he slung his book bag over his shoulder and left.
Hermione’s head slunk onto her arms. Talk things over, he’d said. What he’d meant had been console, and who’s fault was that? Well, he did also have a decision to make, and she felt guilty hoping that Harry would decline the position.
O
The only thing Draco found interesting in the Halloween Feast-besides some unwittingly good pumpkin pasties-was the drama at the Gryffindor table. Weasley was clearly upset, and judging by the fact that Draco hadn’t been beaten to a bloody pulp, no one had bothered mentioning his involvement in the spreading of certain important information.
And did Weasley ever look upset. The oaf was known widely for his appetite, which was similar to that of a mountain troll, and yet, currently, he wasn’t eating so much as stabbing his mashed potatoes with his fork. It was quite the spectacle, if one knew to watch.
Unfortunately, with so few Eighth Years, there weren’t near so many rabid Harry Potter and Co. gossipers. There was that one girl-what was it?-Romilda something? She was watching with rapt attention, evidently very caught up with this new state of affairs.
All in all, there was something most gratifying in watching Ron Weasley heartbroken and shaken, something that went much deeper than mere payback for stealing hair gel or silencing him in the dormitory or any of the other crimes that had been committed against Draco since the beginning of the year. No, this payback had its roots at the dawn of their first year at Hogwarts, and the multitude of reasons for hating Weasley had grown exponentially since then. Harry Potter might have been Draco’s first nemesis, but now there was no question that the Weasel had taken over that position with an uncouth and juvenile grace.
There was also something going round the rumor mill-and by rumor mill he meant overhearing Padma Patil speaking to Dean Thomas-that there was a good chance that Potter wouldn’t be taking the “Cuddly Cannons” seeker position.
Maybe that would push the Weasel over the edge and he’d drop out of school, like his last two siblings before him.
And, by the way, didn’t one of the twins die? Draco wasn’t sure, but it seemed as if he’d heard something of that nature. He himself had been rather preoccupied by his own affairs at the time.
The thought nearly, but not quite, made him feel a little sorry for the Weasley clan. It wasn’t as if they’d offered him sympathy after what happened to his father.
“Malfoy?” It was Greengrass again.
“Yes, your Grassiness?” he asked, turning and resting his head in one hand, propped up by his elbow.
“I was just wondering,” she said, flipping her nose into the air, “just what it is you’re finding so very amusing over at the Gryffindoorknob table.”
“Gryffindoorknob?” he repeated, trying and failing to hide a smirk. “If you must know, the Weasel and the Bookworm broke things off last night.”
“Weasley and Granger?”
He nodded. “Lovebirds no more.”
She opened her mouth. “Oh, no, please, don’t tell me that’s it.”
“What’s what?” he asked, turning to look at the destruction of the mashed potatoes a few tables over.
“The reason you turned me down,” she explained in a very slow and accusing tone. “You bloody fancy that Gryffindor frizz-head!” This last part was said loud enough for several people to turn.
“What?” he asked. “Have you been smoking any of that grass in your name?” he sputtered.
She sniffed. “Smoking? Malfoy, no one under the age of seventy smokes unless they want to commit a serious faux pas. You know that.”
He rolled his eyes at her. “What are you on about, anyway? Me like Granger? You can’t be serious.”
“Well,” she said, “let’s see.” She pointed to one finger. “You turned me down for no better reason than the illegalities of your going to Hogsmeade.” She pointed to another finger. “You’re gloating over their split.” She pointed to a third. “And you have been spending an awful lot of time with her. I heard she’s your partner for that inane class of Amorell’s.
“So, Malfoy, you tell me. What are your feelings for the little Grieffindor?”
His eyebrows lowered. “Nothing even close to what you’re suggesting, little girl.”
“Oh, no?” she asked. “Well, I’ve got my eye on you. Know that,” she warned.
Draco scowled, and across the room, a glint of something caught his eye. It was, oddly enough, coming from a crystal ball, clutched greedily in the hands of Professor Sybil Trelawney, hack prophesier extraordinaire. The bespectacled woman was hurrying towards the staff table, and she sat down beside Professor Amorell as if the two biddies were the best of mates.
Draco had gone through a long list of least favorite teachers, beginning with Professor Lockhart, extending through Professors Lupin and Moody-him especially-moving onto Professor Slughorn, who, for a Slytherin, had been surprisingly uninterested in him, and settling on Professors McGonagall and Hagrid, for lack of the others’ presence. Amorell and Trelawney were far, far higher than any of their predecessors on that list-except Moody, that ferret-casting eye-rover.
Although he’d never actually had a class with Trelawney, she’d made the list. Just two months ago on the first day of class, when he’d been suffered to be dragged around, blinded, stumbling into things with a Weasley-like bumbling quality, that bug-eyed teacher had dared make that prophesy.
Even Granger didn’t like her, and that had to say something more negative about the woman than her lack of fashion-sense alone would confirm.
That prophesy. Before this year ends, you and Mr. Malfoy here will discover what the heart seeks but the mind avoids. And what, pray tell, was that supposed to mean? Precisely what that snit Greengrass had just accused him of, that’s what. His heart did certainly not seek out Hermione Mudblood Granger, even if his mind did avoid it.
Oh, Merlin, he did not just think that.
Trelawney was deeply immersed in a whispering match with Amorell, showing her whatever was hidden within the depths of the crystal. It all just looked a milky smear from where he was seated, but evidently, they found it incredibly interesting. A floating Jack-o-Lantern drifted over their heads, knocking Trelawney’s hat off, and in the brief scramble under the table for it, his view of the crystal cleared, revealing two inky black blobs shrouded in darkness. It might have looked like something a little more substantial if he weren’t ten meters or so away.
Why did he have a bad feeling that one of those blobs was him?
O
Back in the Common Room, Hermione sat with Harry and, to her utmost discomfort, Ron. They weren’t meeting one another’s eyes. Ron, apparently, was finding the pattern in the rug very intriguing, and Hermione was busy attempting to read her Charms book. She couldn’t focus.
“Right,” Harry said, clearing his throat, “so I’ve made up my mind.”
Hermione, with a gratefulness she’d seldom felt when being interrupted in her reading, put her bookmark in and looked up. From her peripheral vision, Ron had looked up too. Harry shifted, looking uncomfortable. “Go on,” Hermione murmured.
It was as if they’d unwittingly asked him to choose between them, and Hermione could tell, even without looking, that Ron was going into one of those moods he got when the three of them fought. Irritable and quick to blame.
“Well,” Harry continued, “if they do pick me for the team-”
“You’re Harry Potter. It’s a when, not an if,” Ron interrupted firmly.
“Er, right. When they pick me.” He made a funny face at that, but no one was laughing. Harry had some stupid luck that way. The idea of him not being picked was almost ludicrous. Even if he weren’t a good Seeker, he’d still draw crowds to games and get the team publicity. He turned to look at Hermione. “I know what you want, but,” he sighed, “this is something I’m good at. There’s not a whole lot for me that comes naturally. Stuff that’s just me doing something I’m good at instead of something I’ve been destined to do. Hermione, you’re good with your books. If someone offered you the chance to be a professional… something-or-other involving books, you’d take it.” Hermione felt her heart sinking, knowing what was coming next.
“I’m pretty sure I’m going to take the position, if only for a game or two.”
“But, Harry,” she said, finding her voice cracking again, “what about the Defense Against the Dark Arts position? You’re a natural at that, too.”
He shrugged weakly. “It’s a cursed position. It might open up again later.” With his luck, it probably would.
Ron was beaming. That was perhaps the only positive Hermione could see in the situation. He’d have been devastated if Harry had chosen to stay, especially when she had just left him in the quick. “Glad to have you on the team,” he said, reaching out and shaking Harry’s hand.
And that was the both of them. Both of her best friends were leaving her for professional Quidditch positions on what was arguably the worst team in the last century, or so she’d gathered when she’d finally read a book on Quidditch just to know what the fuss was over. They’d both be missing for gaps throughout the year, and that was assuming they didn’t drop out of school.
And worst, to her, at least, was that Harry had been offered her dream job and turned it down. He could have been a Hogwarts professor. That kind of was the professional something-or-other involving books that she’d dreamt about.
Ron was the one who was supposed to be constantly jealous of Harry, not her.
O
Breakfast the next morning brought the owls, and Ron sat with his arm across Harry’s shoulders, a gigantic grin on his face. Hermione sat on the other side of Ginny, scowling into her black coffee. Ginny seemed partway thrilled and partway disgusted. “Doesn’t he know this is how you lose your girlfriend?” she whispered to Hermione. “Granted, it’s not like you’re into Quidditch like I am, so it’s different.”
A creamy owl dappled with gray and tan spots landed in the space between Harry’s bowl of hot cereal and a fruit platter.
Harry’s hand hovered over the envelope for a moment, and Ron was quick to shove a piece of bacon at the owl. “Go on,” he urged. “Open it.”
Harry let out an anxious breath and tugged the parchment out. “Dear Mr. Potter,” he read in his letter-from-the-Order voice, “I regret to….” His voice trailed off, and he was so stunned he actually smirked. “I didn’t make it.”
“You….” Ron jerked the letter out of his hand. “Blimey.”
Hermione felt the tension in her shoulders loosen, and a tiny smile lit her face. Somehow, Harry had managed not to let either of them down by simply being let down himself. Ginny looked equally relieved. “Well,” Hermione said, trying not to sound too chipper, “I guess this is for the best. After all, you’re the Deputy Head Boy. You have a duty to the school to uphold.”
“Some duty,” Harry muttered, still looking shocked. “I think I docked points from two Slytherins total so far.”
Ron bit his lip. “They actually turned down Harry Potter. I can hardly believe it.” Was it her imagination, or did Ron look a tad proud over the fact that he’d been chosen and Harry hadn’t? It was Prefect Badges all over again.
O
A.N.: I’m addicted to author’s notes. That is all.
Please click the tag for a list of chapters.
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Author: Marmalade Fever
Characters: Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger, and more.
Genres: Romance, Drama, weird combo of in-Hogwarts and post-Hogwarts, and Humor. I can't write a fanfic without humor leaking its way in.
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.
Eight and Eighth-Chapter 12-Inky Blobs
Hermione’s eyes were puffy by the time she left the dormitory in the morning. Ron was sitting in the common room with two cups of coffee, waiting for her. “Here,” he said, offering one to her.
She couldn’t meet his eye, but she accepted the cup and sat down on one of the large chairs. “Thanks.”
He let go of a long, rattling breath. “I’m so confused. I thought we were doing okay. I barely slept last night,” he added, slouching into the back of the sofa.
“Neither did I.” She took a sip. He’d added too much cream and sugar, and she thought for a moment that he might have given her his by accident, but from the looks of it, his was just as pale.
“Look,” he said, setting his cup on the floor in front of him. “I don’t think you’re making the right decision. So… so I’m going to make a request.”
“And what’s that?” she asked. Her voice was hoarse.
“Keep wearing my bracelet. To remind you of me.” He looked up at her then, pleading with her through his eyes. “I haven’t said it enough, I know, but, Hermione-I love you. I don’t want to lose you.”
She nodded. “I love you, too, Ron. I’m just not sure if I love you in the right way.”
“I’m really sorry about what happened,” he added. “Just, please, don’t give up on me?” He stood and strode out of the room, and Hermione glanced down first at his abandoned cup of coffee and then at the gleaming silver ermine on her wrist. Weasel, she corrected. An ermine was a type of weasel.
There were footfalls on the stairs, and she didn’t bother trying to hide her swollen eyes. A blond head appeared, and Malfoy paused to look at her before he left the common room.
The charm also looked like a ferret.
O
Ginny was frowning from her seat when Hermione finally came down to breakfast. Ron wasn’t there. He must have come down earlier to get the coffee. “So?” she asked.
Hermione nodded as she filled her plate. Today was going to be awkward. That much was apparent.
Harry was stifling a yawn. “Why’s everyone so tense?” he asked, slouching so his head went into his hand.
Ginny sent Hermione a glare. “Tell him.”
Hermione bit her lip before turning to Harry. He hated it when she and Ron fought, and this was, well, more than just a fight. “R-ron,” her voice cracked, “and I are finished,” she mumbled.
Harry sat up straighter. “You… what? You ended it? Why?”
She squirmed. “Well….”
“Ron kissed that Moon girl,” Ginny grumbled. “Or so says Malfoy, anyway.”
“Ron confirmed it,” Hermione mumbled. She pushed away her plate. She wasn’t especially hungry after all. “Plus, there are some other issues that made up my mind,” she added for Harry’s benefit.
Harry looked downright confused. “But he can’t stand August. Why would he…?”
“I don’t know, Harry. The point is that he did.” This entire conversation was making her feel ill. “Do you think maybe we could change the subject? Er, Ginny, why don’t you tell Harry what you told me about those Hogwarts crest rings?”
“Oh, right.” Ginny reached into her bag and pulled out a flyer, scooting it closer to Harry. “You know my ring-size,” she added with a wink.
The relief on Harry’s face was almost tangible. “Christmas on your mind?” he asked. Ginny nodded, pleased about clearing up the confusion. “Good.” He smiled at the red-head, who actually tugged him forward and kissed him.
Hermione, meanwhile, blushed and turned away. There was something very uncomfortable about watching people kissing, especially when those people are two of your good friends. She sneaked a peek over at the Hufflepuff table, where August was crammed between a First Year and a Seventh Year, both of whom were taller than her. She seemed oblivious enough to the Gryffindor table. Hannah sat across from her, chatting about something with animated hand gestures.
At the Ravenclaw table, Padma was currently talking to Flitwick, who had stopped alongside her. Granted, all Hermione could see from her position was his hat.
Dean sat down at the other end of the Gryffindor table, talking to this year’s Quidditch coach, a gangly-looking Fifth Year.
That was six of eight Eighth Years accounted for. Ron, thankfully, was elsewhere, and number eight was Malfoy, who had his back turned to a very peeved Astoria Greengrass and was reading a book, which looked suspiciously like Grieving for the Soul.
There was a sound of smacking as Harry and Ginny came up for air, and Hermione turned back to them again. “So, Harry, any thoughts on whether you’ll be the next Chuddley Cannons Seeker?” she asked, surprised at her own daring to bring up Quidditch. At least it was a distraction from the happy couple.
Harry opened his mouth and closed it again. “Um. Well, I, you know-your breaking things off with Ron, er.” He stopped, looking horrified.
“Go on, Harry,” she mumbled.
“Makes me feel caught in the middle,” he finished.
“That’s nothing unusual,” Hermione said, somewhat guiltily.
“Er, right.” Harry was fiddling with his fork. “Well, see, if I join that means Ron’ll be happy, but you and Gin-”
“Will be left here alone,” Hermione finished.
“But it’d also mean I wouldn’t be able to finish the year. On the other hand, it’d be incredible to be a professional Seeker, but then again, it’s the,” he coughed, “Cannons. But that doesn’t mean it wouldn’t be great if Ron and I got them into shape,” he added with an embarrassed smile.
“And then there’s McGonagall’s offer,” Hermione prompted, the little twinge of guilt awake inside of her.
“Yeah,” Harry agreed, “and then there’s that.” He groaned, and Ginny patted his back.
“When is the final decision about the Seeker position made?” This was from a nondescript Seventh Year named Eldric Moore, whom none of them had realized had been listening in.
“November First,” Harry answered, shrugging.
Hermione paused. “Harry, you do realize today’s Halloween?”
“Yeah, so?”
She almost wanted to laugh. “Therefore, today is October Thirty-first; therefore, tomorrow is November First.”
Harry looked as if he’d been bitten. “Do you ever think one month when it’s really a different one? Oh, hang it all. I have to go make a decision.” He stood, looking apologetically at Hermione. “I’d better go talk things over with Ron.” With that, he slung his book bag over his shoulder and left.
Hermione’s head slunk onto her arms. Talk things over, he’d said. What he’d meant had been console, and who’s fault was that? Well, he did also have a decision to make, and she felt guilty hoping that Harry would decline the position.
O
The only thing Draco found interesting in the Halloween Feast-besides some unwittingly good pumpkin pasties-was the drama at the Gryffindor table. Weasley was clearly upset, and judging by the fact that Draco hadn’t been beaten to a bloody pulp, no one had bothered mentioning his involvement in the spreading of certain important information.
And did Weasley ever look upset. The oaf was known widely for his appetite, which was similar to that of a mountain troll, and yet, currently, he wasn’t eating so much as stabbing his mashed potatoes with his fork. It was quite the spectacle, if one knew to watch.
Unfortunately, with so few Eighth Years, there weren’t near so many rabid Harry Potter and Co. gossipers. There was that one girl-what was it?-Romilda something? She was watching with rapt attention, evidently very caught up with this new state of affairs.
All in all, there was something most gratifying in watching Ron Weasley heartbroken and shaken, something that went much deeper than mere payback for stealing hair gel or silencing him in the dormitory or any of the other crimes that had been committed against Draco since the beginning of the year. No, this payback had its roots at the dawn of their first year at Hogwarts, and the multitude of reasons for hating Weasley had grown exponentially since then. Harry Potter might have been Draco’s first nemesis, but now there was no question that the Weasel had taken over that position with an uncouth and juvenile grace.
There was also something going round the rumor mill-and by rumor mill he meant overhearing Padma Patil speaking to Dean Thomas-that there was a good chance that Potter wouldn’t be taking the “Cuddly Cannons” seeker position.
Maybe that would push the Weasel over the edge and he’d drop out of school, like his last two siblings before him.
And, by the way, didn’t one of the twins die? Draco wasn’t sure, but it seemed as if he’d heard something of that nature. He himself had been rather preoccupied by his own affairs at the time.
The thought nearly, but not quite, made him feel a little sorry for the Weasley clan. It wasn’t as if they’d offered him sympathy after what happened to his father.
“Malfoy?” It was Greengrass again.
“Yes, your Grassiness?” he asked, turning and resting his head in one hand, propped up by his elbow.
“I was just wondering,” she said, flipping her nose into the air, “just what it is you’re finding so very amusing over at the Gryffindoorknob table.”
“Gryffindoorknob?” he repeated, trying and failing to hide a smirk. “If you must know, the Weasel and the Bookworm broke things off last night.”
“Weasley and Granger?”
He nodded. “Lovebirds no more.”
She opened her mouth. “Oh, no, please, don’t tell me that’s it.”
“What’s what?” he asked, turning to look at the destruction of the mashed potatoes a few tables over.
“The reason you turned me down,” she explained in a very slow and accusing tone. “You bloody fancy that Gryffindor frizz-head!” This last part was said loud enough for several people to turn.
“What?” he asked. “Have you been smoking any of that grass in your name?” he sputtered.
She sniffed. “Smoking? Malfoy, no one under the age of seventy smokes unless they want to commit a serious faux pas. You know that.”
He rolled his eyes at her. “What are you on about, anyway? Me like Granger? You can’t be serious.”
“Well,” she said, “let’s see.” She pointed to one finger. “You turned me down for no better reason than the illegalities of your going to Hogsmeade.” She pointed to another finger. “You’re gloating over their split.” She pointed to a third. “And you have been spending an awful lot of time with her. I heard she’s your partner for that inane class of Amorell’s.
“So, Malfoy, you tell me. What are your feelings for the little Grieffindor?”
His eyebrows lowered. “Nothing even close to what you’re suggesting, little girl.”
“Oh, no?” she asked. “Well, I’ve got my eye on you. Know that,” she warned.
Draco scowled, and across the room, a glint of something caught his eye. It was, oddly enough, coming from a crystal ball, clutched greedily in the hands of Professor Sybil Trelawney, hack prophesier extraordinaire. The bespectacled woman was hurrying towards the staff table, and she sat down beside Professor Amorell as if the two biddies were the best of mates.
Draco had gone through a long list of least favorite teachers, beginning with Professor Lockhart, extending through Professors Lupin and Moody-him especially-moving onto Professor Slughorn, who, for a Slytherin, had been surprisingly uninterested in him, and settling on Professors McGonagall and Hagrid, for lack of the others’ presence. Amorell and Trelawney were far, far higher than any of their predecessors on that list-except Moody, that ferret-casting eye-rover.
Although he’d never actually had a class with Trelawney, she’d made the list. Just two months ago on the first day of class, when he’d been suffered to be dragged around, blinded, stumbling into things with a Weasley-like bumbling quality, that bug-eyed teacher had dared make that prophesy.
Even Granger didn’t like her, and that had to say something more negative about the woman than her lack of fashion-sense alone would confirm.
That prophesy. Before this year ends, you and Mr. Malfoy here will discover what the heart seeks but the mind avoids. And what, pray tell, was that supposed to mean? Precisely what that snit Greengrass had just accused him of, that’s what. His heart did certainly not seek out Hermione Mudblood Granger, even if his mind did avoid it.
Oh, Merlin, he did not just think that.
Trelawney was deeply immersed in a whispering match with Amorell, showing her whatever was hidden within the depths of the crystal. It all just looked a milky smear from where he was seated, but evidently, they found it incredibly interesting. A floating Jack-o-Lantern drifted over their heads, knocking Trelawney’s hat off, and in the brief scramble under the table for it, his view of the crystal cleared, revealing two inky black blobs shrouded in darkness. It might have looked like something a little more substantial if he weren’t ten meters or so away.
Why did he have a bad feeling that one of those blobs was him?
O
Back in the Common Room, Hermione sat with Harry and, to her utmost discomfort, Ron. They weren’t meeting one another’s eyes. Ron, apparently, was finding the pattern in the rug very intriguing, and Hermione was busy attempting to read her Charms book. She couldn’t focus.
“Right,” Harry said, clearing his throat, “so I’ve made up my mind.”
Hermione, with a gratefulness she’d seldom felt when being interrupted in her reading, put her bookmark in and looked up. From her peripheral vision, Ron had looked up too. Harry shifted, looking uncomfortable. “Go on,” Hermione murmured.
It was as if they’d unwittingly asked him to choose between them, and Hermione could tell, even without looking, that Ron was going into one of those moods he got when the three of them fought. Irritable and quick to blame.
“Well,” Harry continued, “if they do pick me for the team-”
“You’re Harry Potter. It’s a when, not an if,” Ron interrupted firmly.
“Er, right. When they pick me.” He made a funny face at that, but no one was laughing. Harry had some stupid luck that way. The idea of him not being picked was almost ludicrous. Even if he weren’t a good Seeker, he’d still draw crowds to games and get the team publicity. He turned to look at Hermione. “I know what you want, but,” he sighed, “this is something I’m good at. There’s not a whole lot for me that comes naturally. Stuff that’s just me doing something I’m good at instead of something I’ve been destined to do. Hermione, you’re good with your books. If someone offered you the chance to be a professional… something-or-other involving books, you’d take it.” Hermione felt her heart sinking, knowing what was coming next.
“I’m pretty sure I’m going to take the position, if only for a game or two.”
“But, Harry,” she said, finding her voice cracking again, “what about the Defense Against the Dark Arts position? You’re a natural at that, too.”
He shrugged weakly. “It’s a cursed position. It might open up again later.” With his luck, it probably would.
Ron was beaming. That was perhaps the only positive Hermione could see in the situation. He’d have been devastated if Harry had chosen to stay, especially when she had just left him in the quick. “Glad to have you on the team,” he said, reaching out and shaking Harry’s hand.
And that was the both of them. Both of her best friends were leaving her for professional Quidditch positions on what was arguably the worst team in the last century, or so she’d gathered when she’d finally read a book on Quidditch just to know what the fuss was over. They’d both be missing for gaps throughout the year, and that was assuming they didn’t drop out of school.
And worst, to her, at least, was that Harry had been offered her dream job and turned it down. He could have been a Hogwarts professor. That kind of was the professional something-or-other involving books that she’d dreamt about.
Ron was the one who was supposed to be constantly jealous of Harry, not her.
O
Breakfast the next morning brought the owls, and Ron sat with his arm across Harry’s shoulders, a gigantic grin on his face. Hermione sat on the other side of Ginny, scowling into her black coffee. Ginny seemed partway thrilled and partway disgusted. “Doesn’t he know this is how you lose your girlfriend?” she whispered to Hermione. “Granted, it’s not like you’re into Quidditch like I am, so it’s different.”
A creamy owl dappled with gray and tan spots landed in the space between Harry’s bowl of hot cereal and a fruit platter.
Harry’s hand hovered over the envelope for a moment, and Ron was quick to shove a piece of bacon at the owl. “Go on,” he urged. “Open it.”
Harry let out an anxious breath and tugged the parchment out. “Dear Mr. Potter,” he read in his letter-from-the-Order voice, “I regret to….” His voice trailed off, and he was so stunned he actually smirked. “I didn’t make it.”
“You….” Ron jerked the letter out of his hand. “Blimey.”
Hermione felt the tension in her shoulders loosen, and a tiny smile lit her face. Somehow, Harry had managed not to let either of them down by simply being let down himself. Ginny looked equally relieved. “Well,” Hermione said, trying not to sound too chipper, “I guess this is for the best. After all, you’re the Deputy Head Boy. You have a duty to the school to uphold.”
“Some duty,” Harry muttered, still looking shocked. “I think I docked points from two Slytherins total so far.”
Ron bit his lip. “They actually turned down Harry Potter. I can hardly believe it.” Was it her imagination, or did Ron look a tad proud over the fact that he’d been chosen and Harry hadn’t? It was Prefect Badges all over again.
O
A.N.: I’m addicted to author’s notes. That is all.
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