Eight and Eighth--Chapter 14
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 14-Easier Said than Done, Mum
Harry arrived in the Great Hall a few mornings later looking both annoyed and poorly groomed. “He’s still in there,” he grumbled, sitting down next to Ron.
Ron shrugged. “I finally just went to a different toilet. Wonder what’s taking him so long.”
Dean yawned. “I got my shower, but I had to get up at the crack of dawn.”
Hermione’s sleep-logged brain had already done the necessary calculations to deduce that Malfoy had been in their loo for far longer than any of his roommates would prefer. That was just as well. She’d really rather he stayed away from her for as long as possible.
O
Draco was having a crisis. Well, perhaps that was putting it too strongly.
His tube of hair gel was empty. He couldn’t blame it on Weasley this time because he’d been rationing the remnants for weeks now, but he’d finally reached the end. Usually he would have either picked some up at Hogsmeade or had his mother owl him some, but since neither of them were allowed in public, his options were severely limited.
It was a Hogsmeade weekend for Third through Seventh Years. The Eighth Years, with the exclusion of his own personage, of course, were allowed to visit the village whenever they wished.
So unless he wanted to waste unnecessary energy ordering a catalogue to order his hair product, he had better find someone to simply pick some up for him today.
He fixed his hair as best as he could before venturing into the hallways. He passed by a First Year Ravenclaw and a Second Year Gryffindor and finally caught up to a Third Year Slytherin.
“Hey, you!”
The kid had one of those faces, like a chicken with acne. “Yeah?”
“I’ve got a proposal for you.”
Chicken-Head had the indecency to look bored. “What?”
Draco reached into his bag and brought out a piece of parchment and a quill to scribble a note. “Go into Hogsmeade and get me this.”
The kid raised his eyebrow-not very well, Draco noted-and turned to walk away.
“Hey!”
“What, Malfoy? You going to threaten me with your wandless self? Balderdash. I’ve got the wand here, so scram, will you?”
Draco blinked. “Excuse me?”
The younger boy smirked and did a simple but annoying spell that tied Draco’s shoelaces together, then walked away, wand twirling like a baton.
It could have been worse. It really could have. At least this was a spell he could undo without needing a wand. He backed himself up as suavely as possible-which was difficult, all things considered-and bent over in an alcove to untie the knot.
So apparently he couldn’t just bully a younger year into doing his bidding. Bribery might be an option, but parting ways with his lovely galleons was not exactly his preferred method of getting things done. He might need those galleons later, especially considering his current inability to visit Gringotts and make a withdrawal.
What he needed was someone he could trust, but he was sorely lacking in the friends department as of late.
There was the possibility that Astoria Greengrass might help him, but that prospect seemed doubtful. She’d been awfully touchy ever since he turned her down last Hogsmeade Weekend, and he’d prefer that she didn’t decide to spread the conclusion she’d made about himself and Granger.
Granger. When it came down to it, she was really the only one he could think of who might be convinced to put one more item on her shopping list without the necessity of bribery, blackmail, or threats.
But asking her would lead to all sorts of unnecessary assumptions on her part.
He’d been avoiding her since Monday. His idiotic decision to do whatever it was he’d done with his thumb had come back to bite him in a rather painful area.
He did not, by any means, fancy her, think she was cute, or any of those other flowery, ridiculous things that might spell doom in pink and red hearts.
There was absolutely no stock in the rush of hormones he felt when looking in her frizzy-headed direction.
It would be foolish to ask her to buy him his hair gel, and so he didn’t.
O
Hermione felt incredibly uncomfortable as she made the trek to Amorell’s classroom on Monday, and it wasn’t made any better by the fact that Ron was a few steps ahead of her or that Malfoy had seemingly abandoned his hair gel after eight years of near-continual use.
“Dancing? We’re dancing?” Ron asked, looking at Harry for confirmation.
Harry shrugged. “You’re just lucky you missed last week’s lesson. Hermione looked like she was going to die.” He turned around to wink at her, but she felt too queasy to smile back.
Ron lifted his hands to rest behind his head. “Why’s that?”
“We were doing a traditional wizarding country dance, and Hermione,” he snorted, “had to hold hands with Malfoy.”
Ron burst into laughter, completely unsympathetic to Hermione’s plight. “Hope you didn’t contract anything! Ferret might give you rabies.”
She didn’t bother telling him that rabies couldn’t be contracted through hand-holding. Biting, yes, and in rare cases through kissing, but that really didn’t need to be touched upon, she decided.
Ron’s laughter died down. “I s’pose this means I’ll have to dance with August?” His nose wrinkled up, and he turned his head away from Hermione, blushing slightly.
The git.
They were the first ones in the classroom, though it looked as if Amorell had already made her preparations. The desks were pushed back against the walls, and two streamers in gold and blue criss-crossed from opposite corners. All that was missing was a punch table and a disco ball.
Dean showed up next, wearing a funny-looking weed with a big peach flower pinned to his button-hole. “Luna told me to wear it to ‘ward off Padma’s advances.’” He rolled his eyes. “Smells like curdled milk.”
“Hmm, might work, then,” Harry replied, smiling slightly.
Hermione sat down to wait, all the while feeling queasier and queasier, and tried to focus her mind on other things, like Luna’s steadfast inaccuracy.
Malfoy was the last to arrive, just barely scraping himself in after Amorell. The psychotic professor was wearing a muggle outfit that consisted of bell bottoms, platform shoes, and a large Christmas jumper.
Amorell, for once, didn’t say anything but merely hustled off to the corner to turn on the phonograph. An unfamiliar wizard rock song began, and if the look on Hannah’s face was anything to go by, it wasn’t exactly a popular one.
“You transfigured my heart, you wily witch. Wilhelmina, you made it a stone! Ba-da-dum-bum-bum!” was followed by a series of odd popping sounds and a chorus that was so fast, she wasn’t actually sure it had lyrics or not.
“Well, go on,” Amorell said after everyone just stood there like so many wallflowers.
Dean and Padma began dancing, though she wore a pinched-up expression that suggested that the weed was working, though it was entirely unnecessary. Padma, Hermione had learned, had sworn off boys ever since Parvati’s wedding.
Harry and Hannah were dancing awkwardly with a good two feet between them, fingertips grazing one another’s shoulders and making polite small chat.
Ron and August weren’t touching at all, but it couldn’t be said that they weren’t dancing either.
Which left Hermione sitting sulkily on the floor while Malfoy moved toward her at the approximate speed of a sloth. “Well?” he said at length, when he was finally within proximity of her.
She groaned. There wasn’t really any use fighting it. If her marks depended upon dancing with him, then so be it. He made no move to offer her a hand, not that he would, so she hoisted herself up and dusted her palms off on her skirt before facing her doom.
The song ended with a scratchy lilt like bees and crickets tumbling around in a dryer, and a new one began. This one was marginally better in regards to euphony, but it was worse in a much different regard. It was a slow song-requiring a slow dance.
A glaring contest ensued.
It was a funny thing, his hair. For so many years, the gel had seemed to parallel his attitude: rigid. And with the way it had previously been so slicked backwards into straight, unmoving strands, it had emphasized his chin, as she had earlier figured out when Ron had done his thievery.
The lack of gel made him look softer, a little more human and a little less like a marble statue.
A hand descended on her shoulder.
O
Draco looked up into the cheery face of Professor Amorell and tugged his shoulder out of her manicured grip. Granger looked as if she wanted to do the exact same. “Is there a problem? The music started,” she checked her watch, “three and a half minutes ago, and the two of you haven’t shimmied or boogied or jived or done anything resembling a chicken. Something wrong?”
He’d pay Granger one-hundred galleons on the spot to claim to have a sprained ankle, and for the life of him he wished she would.
And then a miracle occurred.
“I… don’t feel very well, Professor. I think I need to sit down a bit,” Granger said. He could tell she was grappling for an excuse, but she did look slightly green around the gills. He wondered if one of those Weasley candies was to blame.
He found himself speaking without any real intention to do so. “I’ll accompany her to the Hospital Wing, if you’d like, Professor Amorell.” Had he just volunteered for that? He’d gone mental for certain.
Amorell’s smile stretched to a dangerous degree. “Very well. I suppose it’s not as if the two of you won’t be dancing together soon enough, as it is.”
Draco had to stop and frown, and Granger’s face twisted into an expression of puzzlement-or nausea, either one. “What do you mean?” he asked, not bothering to sound polite.
“Why, at your wedding, of course.” There wasn’t so much as a flinch in her demeanor to suggest that what she’d just said might be ridiculous.
Granger actually covered her mouth, whether in horror or the suppression of a gag reflex. “What?” she squeaked, sounding terrifically aghast.
“Where’d you pick up that load of,” he used a word that would ordinarily have earned him a detention.
Amorell looked puzzled. “You mean you’re not betrothed?”
The laugh that escaped his mouth was anything but mirthful. “My family? Have me betrothed? To her? Are you insane?” Well, he already knew the answer to that one.
“I guess I must have simply misunderstood Sybil’s meaning, then.”
“Wait!” The expression on Granger’s face had changed to something more akin to anger, and she spoke slowly, as if to penetrate a very thick skull. “Just what did Professor Trelawney say?”
Amorell sat down on one of the desks that had been pushed against the wall. “She said that you were going to be married. And I presumed that because the two of you don’t exactly get along, it must have been someone else’s idea.” She paused. “Your children would be utterly adorable, you know.”
No, he couldn’t say he did know. This entire year had gotten out of hand, as if there were some massive plot to get the two of them together.
He was just about to ask what it was he’d caught sight of in the crystal before, when Granger vomited.
Amorell looked alarmed. “Take her to the Hospital Wing at once, if you would, Mr. Malfoy.”
Well, it did sound more tempting than standing there next to a puddle of sick, listening to outdated music. They left the room, Granger still looking a violent shade of puce, and headed in the general direction of the Hospital Wing. It occurred to him that he really should make some kind of remark about keeping her infected self far away from him, but he didn’t. Instead, a very different sentence tumbled from his mouth. “You all right, then?”
“Probably just nerves and utter disgust,” she grumbled. “No offense,” she added, stealing a quick glance in his direction.
“None taken.” The slightest twitch of a smile threatened to spark into life on his face, but he fought it back. They were quiet for a long moment.
It was strange to have anything like a companionable silence between them, but that was the least of his worries.
The color was gradually returning to the girl’s face, though she was worrying at her lip. “Look-I.” She stopped. “Whatever happened last week cannot be repeated; is that clear?”
“Crystal.” Which was suddenly an ironic phrase considering the cloudiness of crystal balls.
“But”-and he was surprised when she blushed-“it’s not you, exactly. I just can’t let that, that cow win.”
“Duly noted.”
Madame Pomfrey went about her usual line of questioning while Draco stood over by the door, pretending he had not just accompanied Hermione Granger here, like a good citizen, or, worse, a Gryffindor.
Granger hopped down from the examination table and was given a small vial. She thanked the nurse before heading toward the exit, which Draco was quick to make use of. “She says it was probably a combination of nerves and an allergic reaction to that stink weed Dean was wearing,” she volunteered, heading in what Draco was alarmed to realize was the direction of their classroom.
“Not carrying Weasley’s love child, then?”
She rolled her eyes at him. “I should say not.”
Why that relieved him… well, it probably didn’t just have to do with his objection to the existence of yet another Weasley in the world.
He didn’t bother pointing out that they could easily skip the entire class altogether without being found out, figuring that it would just fall on deaf ears anyway. She didn’t seem the type to skive without the Dark Lord looming first. He might convince her if he pointed out that there might be yet another slow song playing when they returned, but this way seemed slightly more interesting.
Outside the door to the classroom, Granger pulled the cork from the vial and drank it, face puckering slightly.
“That good, eh?”
“Ha ha,” she replied, and she pushed past where he was resting against the door jamb and into the room.
There wasn’t a terrifically large amount of class left, but there was certainly enough.
O
The song that was playing was just coming to an end, but it was Muggle, and Hermione recognized it almost immediately. “Love the One You’re With,” by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. Wasn’t that just peachy? she thought, looking over the three couples.
Ron hadn’t seemed to notice that she was back, and he and August had progressed from not touching at all to being almost fully pressed into one another. Dean and Padma had started doing a swing dance/tango. Harry and Hannah were in more or less the same position she’d left them, still looking polite, friendly, and calm.
This time a hand rested on her elbow just as another unrecognizable wizarding slow song began. It wasn’t Amorell’s, either. It was Malfoy’s. “Let’s get this over with,” he mumbled.
Hermione took one last glance at Ron and August, who didn’t look like they’d even notice if she and Malfoy were dancing the Bunny Hop. She turned back to the blond, and she nodded, placing her arms awkwardly over his shoulders, and his hands lightly grazed her sides.
O
Draco felt stiff and awkward at first, but he started to relax as the seconds ticked by. They weren’t really looking at one another, but this was the case with every other girl he’d ever slow-danced with.
It was nice, he admitted to himself. It was nice to have her in his arms. It was nice having contact with another human in general, actually.
And as the side effects of her potion kicked in and her head crashed down on his shoulder as she snoozed, a sensation of warmth went through him. He smirked at Weasley, who’d finally torn himself from August, who’d spat something about sweaty hands at him.
He’d had a realization. In some strange and bizarre way that he could never truly explain, Hermione Granger made him happy.
What was stranger still was his realization that his mother had even given him her permission to do something about this happiness, if he wanted.
Anything that you think will make you happy, don’t be afraid to take it.
Easier said than done, Mum.
A.N.: This chapter is shorter than the last few, but I’m in a small time crunch. Also, know that first song I listed, the made-up one? I was singing it in my car yesterday! Lol If anyone can identify which of my other fics mentioned “Wilhelmina: the Wily Witch,” you win… my extreme surprise.
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, 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 14-Easier Said than Done, Mum
Harry arrived in the Great Hall a few mornings later looking both annoyed and poorly groomed. “He’s still in there,” he grumbled, sitting down next to Ron.
Ron shrugged. “I finally just went to a different toilet. Wonder what’s taking him so long.”
Dean yawned. “I got my shower, but I had to get up at the crack of dawn.”
Hermione’s sleep-logged brain had already done the necessary calculations to deduce that Malfoy had been in their loo for far longer than any of his roommates would prefer. That was just as well. She’d really rather he stayed away from her for as long as possible.
O
Draco was having a crisis. Well, perhaps that was putting it too strongly.
His tube of hair gel was empty. He couldn’t blame it on Weasley this time because he’d been rationing the remnants for weeks now, but he’d finally reached the end. Usually he would have either picked some up at Hogsmeade or had his mother owl him some, but since neither of them were allowed in public, his options were severely limited.
It was a Hogsmeade weekend for Third through Seventh Years. The Eighth Years, with the exclusion of his own personage, of course, were allowed to visit the village whenever they wished.
So unless he wanted to waste unnecessary energy ordering a catalogue to order his hair product, he had better find someone to simply pick some up for him today.
He fixed his hair as best as he could before venturing into the hallways. He passed by a First Year Ravenclaw and a Second Year Gryffindor and finally caught up to a Third Year Slytherin.
“Hey, you!”
The kid had one of those faces, like a chicken with acne. “Yeah?”
“I’ve got a proposal for you.”
Chicken-Head had the indecency to look bored. “What?”
Draco reached into his bag and brought out a piece of parchment and a quill to scribble a note. “Go into Hogsmeade and get me this.”
The kid raised his eyebrow-not very well, Draco noted-and turned to walk away.
“Hey!”
“What, Malfoy? You going to threaten me with your wandless self? Balderdash. I’ve got the wand here, so scram, will you?”
Draco blinked. “Excuse me?”
The younger boy smirked and did a simple but annoying spell that tied Draco’s shoelaces together, then walked away, wand twirling like a baton.
It could have been worse. It really could have. At least this was a spell he could undo without needing a wand. He backed himself up as suavely as possible-which was difficult, all things considered-and bent over in an alcove to untie the knot.
So apparently he couldn’t just bully a younger year into doing his bidding. Bribery might be an option, but parting ways with his lovely galleons was not exactly his preferred method of getting things done. He might need those galleons later, especially considering his current inability to visit Gringotts and make a withdrawal.
What he needed was someone he could trust, but he was sorely lacking in the friends department as of late.
There was the possibility that Astoria Greengrass might help him, but that prospect seemed doubtful. She’d been awfully touchy ever since he turned her down last Hogsmeade Weekend, and he’d prefer that she didn’t decide to spread the conclusion she’d made about himself and Granger.
Granger. When it came down to it, she was really the only one he could think of who might be convinced to put one more item on her shopping list without the necessity of bribery, blackmail, or threats.
But asking her would lead to all sorts of unnecessary assumptions on her part.
He’d been avoiding her since Monday. His idiotic decision to do whatever it was he’d done with his thumb had come back to bite him in a rather painful area.
He did not, by any means, fancy her, think she was cute, or any of those other flowery, ridiculous things that might spell doom in pink and red hearts.
There was absolutely no stock in the rush of hormones he felt when looking in her frizzy-headed direction.
It would be foolish to ask her to buy him his hair gel, and so he didn’t.
O
Hermione felt incredibly uncomfortable as she made the trek to Amorell’s classroom on Monday, and it wasn’t made any better by the fact that Ron was a few steps ahead of her or that Malfoy had seemingly abandoned his hair gel after eight years of near-continual use.
“Dancing? We’re dancing?” Ron asked, looking at Harry for confirmation.
Harry shrugged. “You’re just lucky you missed last week’s lesson. Hermione looked like she was going to die.” He turned around to wink at her, but she felt too queasy to smile back.
Ron lifted his hands to rest behind his head. “Why’s that?”
“We were doing a traditional wizarding country dance, and Hermione,” he snorted, “had to hold hands with Malfoy.”
Ron burst into laughter, completely unsympathetic to Hermione’s plight. “Hope you didn’t contract anything! Ferret might give you rabies.”
She didn’t bother telling him that rabies couldn’t be contracted through hand-holding. Biting, yes, and in rare cases through kissing, but that really didn’t need to be touched upon, she decided.
Ron’s laughter died down. “I s’pose this means I’ll have to dance with August?” His nose wrinkled up, and he turned his head away from Hermione, blushing slightly.
The git.
They were the first ones in the classroom, though it looked as if Amorell had already made her preparations. The desks were pushed back against the walls, and two streamers in gold and blue criss-crossed from opposite corners. All that was missing was a punch table and a disco ball.
Dean showed up next, wearing a funny-looking weed with a big peach flower pinned to his button-hole. “Luna told me to wear it to ‘ward off Padma’s advances.’” He rolled his eyes. “Smells like curdled milk.”
“Hmm, might work, then,” Harry replied, smiling slightly.
Hermione sat down to wait, all the while feeling queasier and queasier, and tried to focus her mind on other things, like Luna’s steadfast inaccuracy.
Malfoy was the last to arrive, just barely scraping himself in after Amorell. The psychotic professor was wearing a muggle outfit that consisted of bell bottoms, platform shoes, and a large Christmas jumper.
Amorell, for once, didn’t say anything but merely hustled off to the corner to turn on the phonograph. An unfamiliar wizard rock song began, and if the look on Hannah’s face was anything to go by, it wasn’t exactly a popular one.
“You transfigured my heart, you wily witch. Wilhelmina, you made it a stone! Ba-da-dum-bum-bum!” was followed by a series of odd popping sounds and a chorus that was so fast, she wasn’t actually sure it had lyrics or not.
“Well, go on,” Amorell said after everyone just stood there like so many wallflowers.
Dean and Padma began dancing, though she wore a pinched-up expression that suggested that the weed was working, though it was entirely unnecessary. Padma, Hermione had learned, had sworn off boys ever since Parvati’s wedding.
Harry and Hannah were dancing awkwardly with a good two feet between them, fingertips grazing one another’s shoulders and making polite small chat.
Ron and August weren’t touching at all, but it couldn’t be said that they weren’t dancing either.
Which left Hermione sitting sulkily on the floor while Malfoy moved toward her at the approximate speed of a sloth. “Well?” he said at length, when he was finally within proximity of her.
She groaned. There wasn’t really any use fighting it. If her marks depended upon dancing with him, then so be it. He made no move to offer her a hand, not that he would, so she hoisted herself up and dusted her palms off on her skirt before facing her doom.
The song ended with a scratchy lilt like bees and crickets tumbling around in a dryer, and a new one began. This one was marginally better in regards to euphony, but it was worse in a much different regard. It was a slow song-requiring a slow dance.
A glaring contest ensued.
It was a funny thing, his hair. For so many years, the gel had seemed to parallel his attitude: rigid. And with the way it had previously been so slicked backwards into straight, unmoving strands, it had emphasized his chin, as she had earlier figured out when Ron had done his thievery.
The lack of gel made him look softer, a little more human and a little less like a marble statue.
A hand descended on her shoulder.
O
Draco looked up into the cheery face of Professor Amorell and tugged his shoulder out of her manicured grip. Granger looked as if she wanted to do the exact same. “Is there a problem? The music started,” she checked her watch, “three and a half minutes ago, and the two of you haven’t shimmied or boogied or jived or done anything resembling a chicken. Something wrong?”
He’d pay Granger one-hundred galleons on the spot to claim to have a sprained ankle, and for the life of him he wished she would.
And then a miracle occurred.
“I… don’t feel very well, Professor. I think I need to sit down a bit,” Granger said. He could tell she was grappling for an excuse, but she did look slightly green around the gills. He wondered if one of those Weasley candies was to blame.
He found himself speaking without any real intention to do so. “I’ll accompany her to the Hospital Wing, if you’d like, Professor Amorell.” Had he just volunteered for that? He’d gone mental for certain.
Amorell’s smile stretched to a dangerous degree. “Very well. I suppose it’s not as if the two of you won’t be dancing together soon enough, as it is.”
Draco had to stop and frown, and Granger’s face twisted into an expression of puzzlement-or nausea, either one. “What do you mean?” he asked, not bothering to sound polite.
“Why, at your wedding, of course.” There wasn’t so much as a flinch in her demeanor to suggest that what she’d just said might be ridiculous.
Granger actually covered her mouth, whether in horror or the suppression of a gag reflex. “What?” she squeaked, sounding terrifically aghast.
“Where’d you pick up that load of,” he used a word that would ordinarily have earned him a detention.
Amorell looked puzzled. “You mean you’re not betrothed?”
The laugh that escaped his mouth was anything but mirthful. “My family? Have me betrothed? To her? Are you insane?” Well, he already knew the answer to that one.
“I guess I must have simply misunderstood Sybil’s meaning, then.”
“Wait!” The expression on Granger’s face had changed to something more akin to anger, and she spoke slowly, as if to penetrate a very thick skull. “Just what did Professor Trelawney say?”
Amorell sat down on one of the desks that had been pushed against the wall. “She said that you were going to be married. And I presumed that because the two of you don’t exactly get along, it must have been someone else’s idea.” She paused. “Your children would be utterly adorable, you know.”
No, he couldn’t say he did know. This entire year had gotten out of hand, as if there were some massive plot to get the two of them together.
He was just about to ask what it was he’d caught sight of in the crystal before, when Granger vomited.
Amorell looked alarmed. “Take her to the Hospital Wing at once, if you would, Mr. Malfoy.”
Well, it did sound more tempting than standing there next to a puddle of sick, listening to outdated music. They left the room, Granger still looking a violent shade of puce, and headed in the general direction of the Hospital Wing. It occurred to him that he really should make some kind of remark about keeping her infected self far away from him, but he didn’t. Instead, a very different sentence tumbled from his mouth. “You all right, then?”
“Probably just nerves and utter disgust,” she grumbled. “No offense,” she added, stealing a quick glance in his direction.
“None taken.” The slightest twitch of a smile threatened to spark into life on his face, but he fought it back. They were quiet for a long moment.
It was strange to have anything like a companionable silence between them, but that was the least of his worries.
The color was gradually returning to the girl’s face, though she was worrying at her lip. “Look-I.” She stopped. “Whatever happened last week cannot be repeated; is that clear?”
“Crystal.” Which was suddenly an ironic phrase considering the cloudiness of crystal balls.
“But”-and he was surprised when she blushed-“it’s not you, exactly. I just can’t let that, that cow win.”
“Duly noted.”
Madame Pomfrey went about her usual line of questioning while Draco stood over by the door, pretending he had not just accompanied Hermione Granger here, like a good citizen, or, worse, a Gryffindor.
Granger hopped down from the examination table and was given a small vial. She thanked the nurse before heading toward the exit, which Draco was quick to make use of. “She says it was probably a combination of nerves and an allergic reaction to that stink weed Dean was wearing,” she volunteered, heading in what Draco was alarmed to realize was the direction of their classroom.
“Not carrying Weasley’s love child, then?”
She rolled her eyes at him. “I should say not.”
Why that relieved him… well, it probably didn’t just have to do with his objection to the existence of yet another Weasley in the world.
He didn’t bother pointing out that they could easily skip the entire class altogether without being found out, figuring that it would just fall on deaf ears anyway. She didn’t seem the type to skive without the Dark Lord looming first. He might convince her if he pointed out that there might be yet another slow song playing when they returned, but this way seemed slightly more interesting.
Outside the door to the classroom, Granger pulled the cork from the vial and drank it, face puckering slightly.
“That good, eh?”
“Ha ha,” she replied, and she pushed past where he was resting against the door jamb and into the room.
There wasn’t a terrifically large amount of class left, but there was certainly enough.
O
The song that was playing was just coming to an end, but it was Muggle, and Hermione recognized it almost immediately. “Love the One You’re With,” by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. Wasn’t that just peachy? she thought, looking over the three couples.
Ron hadn’t seemed to notice that she was back, and he and August had progressed from not touching at all to being almost fully pressed into one another. Dean and Padma had started doing a swing dance/tango. Harry and Hannah were in more or less the same position she’d left them, still looking polite, friendly, and calm.
This time a hand rested on her elbow just as another unrecognizable wizarding slow song began. It wasn’t Amorell’s, either. It was Malfoy’s. “Let’s get this over with,” he mumbled.
Hermione took one last glance at Ron and August, who didn’t look like they’d even notice if she and Malfoy were dancing the Bunny Hop. She turned back to the blond, and she nodded, placing her arms awkwardly over his shoulders, and his hands lightly grazed her sides.
O
Draco felt stiff and awkward at first, but he started to relax as the seconds ticked by. They weren’t really looking at one another, but this was the case with every other girl he’d ever slow-danced with.
It was nice, he admitted to himself. It was nice to have her in his arms. It was nice having contact with another human in general, actually.
And as the side effects of her potion kicked in and her head crashed down on his shoulder as she snoozed, a sensation of warmth went through him. He smirked at Weasley, who’d finally torn himself from August, who’d spat something about sweaty hands at him.
He’d had a realization. In some strange and bizarre way that he could never truly explain, Hermione Granger made him happy.
What was stranger still was his realization that his mother had even given him her permission to do something about this happiness, if he wanted.
Anything that you think will make you happy, don’t be afraid to take it.
Easier said than done, Mum.
A.N.: This chapter is shorter than the last few, but I’m in a small time crunch. Also, know that first song I listed, the made-up one? I was singing it in my car yesterday! Lol If anyone can identify which of my other fics mentioned “Wilhelmina: the Wily Witch,” you win… my extreme surprise.
Please click the tag for a list of chapters.
<< >>