hello lovelies ~

I'm helping out a friend with her competition, so I guess i'm a member of a quidditch team now? yeah, I get a prompt and have to write harry potter one shots -thumbs up- it's pretty fun. I think it's cool to post all them into one story, so I'll probably have a couple more in here. Just one for now.

QLFC Season III: Round 13

prompts are: repeat, evasive, and hairbrush

summary: The hairbrush was important to her, a symbol. That symbol became even stronger when Draco Malfoy came into the picture.

pairing: hints of Draco/Hermione whoops

If it had been any other day, it wouldn't have bothered her so much.

However, since today was the day it was—a day where Hermione would rather have stayed in bed to avoid the teasing she knew was to come and a day where even the sun hadn't bothered with showing itself—it irked her a great deal.

I should have stayed in bed, was the morose thought. The first year student stared at the toilet bowl with carefully masked rage and disgust. Tears slid down her youthful, puffy cheeks. Her oversized teeth worked at the skin of her lip to keep the sobs in her mouth. She didn't want to give them the satisfaction.

No, Hermione thought firmly, I won't.

The giggles of the Slytherin girls at her back only fueled the part of her seething like a rabid dog. The Gryffindor wanted to glare at them, to snap back, a witty response dancing on the back of her tongue, but the result wouldn't be nearly satisfying enough.

She had studied ahead and as a result had a list of particularly nasty jinxes and spells under her belt. That didn't necessarily mean she could cast any of them, but the thought that she knew something her bullies did not appeased her slightly.

Hermione dragged her fingertips beneath her eyes to wipe away the tears. She coughed lightly and, with a swish of her wand, began to bring her items out of the toilet. One toothbrush, frayed from use, one hairbrush equally abused, a couple of hair ties that were a twist away from snapping, and at the bottom of the porcelain was a flash of red and gold—her brand new Gryffindor scarf, twisted and mutilated beyond recognition.

The rage swelled, as did a new set of tears. She furiously dragged her arm across her watering eyes, an action that did not go unnoticed by the Slytherin girls - Pansy Parkinson in particular let out a snort, pig-like nose wrinkled with laughter.

"Aw, is the wittle Gryffindor crying?" Pansy sneered, elbows jabbing her peers as if they would miss the joke. Hermione focused on remembering a heating charm—there was a spell to dry things, she knew she had read it, but in the moment she couldn't recall. She did remember how to knock the Slytherin on her rear end with a face the size of France but she, unfortunately, had more self-control than that.

She shook her head and grabbed at the roll of toilet paper and began to attempt to dry the soiled items. The toothbrush needed replacing anyway, she reasoned with herself. She could get another scarf and more hair ties. She didn't tie her hair up all that much anyway, so it wasn't that bad. But the brush…

It wasn't the best quality brush, not in the slightest. It hardly did its job of taming her wild hair, but its use wasn't what was important to her. It was the fact that it was a gift from her grandmother, white bristles turned yellow with age and a silver and gold handle of wood. Her initials, HG, were carefully engraved on the back along with a sweet message of love and family. She traced the water swollen letters with toilet paper and wondered what her grandmother would think of the situation.

"Look at the Mudblood!" Pansy cackled. "Drying her trash like a muggle. What, don't you know how to dry it like a proper witch?"

Hermione didn't have the restraint to stop herself from whirling around, eyes fierce as she snapped back, "Do you?"

There was a pause as the gaggle of girls glanced at each other, the quick response they expected from their leader not forthcoming. Pansy's mouth opened and closed, looking remarkably like a fish, and Hermione was just feeling vindictive enough to point out the improvement the expression was to her normal pig face when the attention in the room shifted.

It was a strange thing, watching Draco Malfoy stride into the girls' lavatory. His robes were pristine as ever, silver and green—eye-catching when compared with the platinum blonde of his hair. His pointed features were oddly unfamiliar when not directed Hermione's way with a scowl marring an otherwise handsome face. Crabbe and Goyle hung just behind and to the side like enormous vultures, barely noticeable from the ever pristine pure-blooded git who tossed a disinterested glance to the girls now cooing at his presence.

"Pansy, what are you gaping about like a fish for?" Draco Malfoy did not mumble, and his words were crisp and clear. "And why would you tell me to come here? God, it's disgusting." The first year girl focused on drying her things, ignoring the queasy feeling in her stomach at the newcomer's presence. She didn't need more people milling about to witness her humiliation.

Not humiliation, she scolded herself. You are not humiliated. You are strong. You will not cry in front of that… that… loser.

"Draco!" Pansy had found her voice. "We just came in to powder our noses—"

What a load of poppycock, Hermione scowled.

"When we found the Mudblood having some… issues." This time her giggle was exceedingly feminine, very different from her normal snort.

There was a shuffle as the boys undoubtedly approached to see what their friend was talking about. Hermione gathered up her things, nowhere near dry enough, and made a half-hearted attempted to stash the items in the folds of her robes. Brown eyes clashed with grey as the two stared each other down.

Hermione refused to be bullied by a stuck-up git like Draco Malfoy.

His lips curled as he observed the soaked bundle in her hands. "What have we here? Your belongings are where they belong, in the trash?" The quip brought forth a round of laughter from his followers and Hermione's cheeks ached as she bit into the flesh. She could handle this—she could handle this easily.

Draco let his gaze linger on her face, assessing her swollen eyes and red cheeks. It wasn't a kind stare, but the intense assessment of a predator sensing weakness. Hermione hoped that her eyes did not betray her as she stared back with equal intensity.

Eventually he chortled. "Look at her ugly mug! You look terrible, Granger. No wonder you're hiding in a bathroom. Did someone toss your things in the loo?"

Heat flared through her and she stalked forward, shouldering past him and his goons, past the girls who were now in stitches over her misfortune. She ignored Draco's exclamation that she had touched him, that he was infected, and made her way out the door. She didn't notice the hairbrush fall from her bundle, and by the time she did, all the way up in Gryffindor tower where she could cry without feeling she had lost, it was too late to retrieve it.

Three days later, she received a parcel from a handsome eagle owl who looked down his beak at her with haughty golden eyes. A strangely familiar expression, and she opened the brown wrapped package with caution.

Inside, wrapped with a beautiful black fabric, was a silver and green hairbrush. The back was adorned with small, glittering gems, the bristles straight and white. Hermione hadn't quite been indoctrinated to the Gryffindor way of thinking that such colors together were a grotesque symbol of cruelty and bloody Slytherins, and as a result she was able to find the metal brush extraordinarily beautiful. She twisted and turned the metal between her fingers, gentle and soft, as though by some sort of miraculous power she would damage such a pretty gift.

Gift. Hermione frowned, glancing about the mostly full Great Hall, attempting to find a clue of the sender. It was worth obvious money, more than any of her meager number of friends had. She was raised not to accept charity, and this was most definitely charity. The Gryffindor peered back into the box, lifting the silk to find a small note tucked away.

Your hair is an eyesore and disturbing the general populace. Fix it, the note read. Her hand went to her head to pat down the unruly curls as crimson flooded her cheeks. Not having a brush, even one that didn't work, had been a bit difficult in the mornings, and a decent amount of time had been spent searching for some sort of spell, since there undoubtedly was a spell - wizards and witches had a spell for everything.

Brain whirling, connecting the dots, she glanced discreetly over to the Slytherin table. Draco was where he normally sat, deceptively small between the hulking frames of his lackeys. Pansy leaned over Goyle to chatter at him but the boy was obviously distracted.

He was staring at her.

She swallowed and despite the fact she wanted to stare him down into the earth, curious, a simple glance was enough to answer the unspoken question, as well as announce a new unspoken rule between them.

They would never speak of it. Ever.

They turned away from each other at the same time, evasive, secretive, Draco scowling at Blaise Zabini as he said something, Hermione rewrapping the brush with delicate care and stashing it in her robes. It seemed wrong, somehow, like she was lying to somebody, as if this wasn't meant to be a secret. But it was.

It didn't come up in second year, when Draco was proudly proclaiming his heritage and spilling his secrets to Harry and Ron under the guise of Crabbe and Goyle.

Nor did it come up during third year, when the hippogriff put the Slytherin in his place and sent the boy into a rampage.

Fourth year came and went as he passed out "Potter Stinks!" badges with the cruel smirk she was more than familiar with.

And when he questioned her personally about the actions of Dumbledore's Army during fifth year and demanded the names of everyone involved, there was nothing but silence between them.

The next time the silver and green brush came up was during their sixth year, and ironically, the confrontation took place inside a bathroom.

It had been the sound of choked sobs that had lured her to the boys' bathroom. It was curiosity that made her stay. She hadn't ever thought that she would see Draco Malfoy cry. Hermione couldn't have imagined him looking anything other than his smug, pristine self, calling her slurs and cursing Harry's name. But, as he braced himself against the sink, bags under his eyes and skin looking grey in the low light, she found that he was not the same. There was weakness in his armor, and when she spoke, she was no longer the quiet first year who couldn't help the flames of embarrassment coloring her neck and cheeks.

She was Hermione Granger who had faced perils unimaginable and was still kind enough to extend a hand to a wounded enemy.

"Are you alright?" she asked quietly. He didn't look hurt, but not every injury was on the outside.

He didn't jump and curse as she had expected. Instead, his shoulders bowed as though a heavy weight had begun to crush him. Perfect posture that had no doubt been ingrained into his genetic DNA was tossed aside for the slump of a defeated man. "What do you want, Granger?" he scowled. Steel eyes stared her down from the mirror, but his voice lacked bite and his gaze couldn't hold a match to the flame he had once exuded before.

Hermione took a step forward. "Nothing," she said quietly. "I just wanted to see if you were okay."

There was venom in his words as he spat, "Well, I'm fine. I don't need a Mudblood like you asking after me. Why don't you go find your little friends and go save the day together." Words that he had said before, but Hermione found that they didn't sting as they normally did. She wondered if her skin had grown thicker or if his voice had just lost whatever it was that had made him seem so cruel.

She respected his wish to be alone—she should probably tell Harry and Ron about it anyway—but as she turned to leave, hand braced against the stone, she found that she suddenly had the courage to ask. "Malfoy," she started, paused, swallowed.

"What," he snarled, but it was more of a whimper in her ears, pleading for her to leave. The word was on repeat in her ears, what, telling her that it was a secret and they had promised not to talk about it.

She turned. "When we were in our first year, Pansy threw my things in the toilet. Do you remember?" Draco did not answer, and she continued on. She hadn't expected him to. "One of them was a hairbrush. My grandmother gave it to me." Another pause, a moment for him to interject with whatever snide remark was probably on the tip of his tongue. But he didn't interrupt and when Hermione spoke, she did not stop this time. "It was a terrible hairbrush, and it didn't do a thing with my hair, but it was a gift, and I loved it. It was from family. I cried, and you told me that it was where it belonged—in the trash." Her fingers curled into fists. "Three days later a brand new brush was gifted to me in the mail. It was silver and green. It was beautiful." She swallowed. "You sent it, didn't you?"

There was a pause before he replied. "Go away, Granger."

"I still have it," she found herself spouting out like a leaky faucet, attempting to tell the boy before her something but unable to say it plainly. "I use it every day. It's much better than my grandma's was."

The boy snorted and turned from the sink, glaring at her with a critical stare. "What is this, some sort of love confession?" A laugh. "Sorry, but I don't associate with people so below me. You're hardly worthy of a kiss."

"No," she denied, and it was true. She didn't love Draco—not in the slightest. "I just… I wanted to say thank you."

His expression didn't change. "Well, you've said it. Why don't you bugger off now? Better yet," he drawled as he started to walk towards her. Oddly, she didn't feel queasy at his approach now, nor did she feel scared. "I'll go ahead and leave. You can stay here, have yourself another sob fest." He pushed by her, and he was gone.

Hermione stayed for only a moment before she left as well, limbs feeling decidedly lighter. She needed to find Harry and Ron, but before she did, she stopped by her dorm. It was there, on the nightstand by her bed. She crawled over the soft duvet to seat herself amongst the red and gold, cool metal in hand, and dragged the brush through the curled tangles that prowled about her head.

Once upon a time, the silver and green amongst the red and gold had felt unnatural—it had been almost unreal. It felt a bit more like home now.

In the dungeon below, a platinum-haired boy dragged the pads of his fingers across engraved wood, contemplating the faded silver and gold paint and the yellowed bristles. "You're welcome," he said quietly. He returned the aged item to his trunk before he departed for the Room of Requirement.

Draco Malfoy was good at compartmentalizing. As he contemplated the murder of a man, it was easy enough to force down the thoughts of a bushy-haired, chubby-cheeked first year and a brush of gold and silver.