I genuinely thought I'd have more free time in this final quarter of the year.
Said the universe: LOL.

In case you missed it, I posted a Theo's POV outtake from this story called 'Interlude'. Check it out, if you like.

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing but this so-called "plot".

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Theo wouldn't stop moaning and it was driving Hermione absolutely batty.

He'd been that way for the past two days, ever since Xenophilius had witnessed him in a state of drunken disgrace. Naturally, he blamed Draco. He was stewing in an awful strop, scowling and growling and categorically not speaking to that sadistic, ruinous dick. His words, not Hermione's. The dick, in turn, derived great amusement from the whole situation, unerringly spouting lines like, "there is such a thing as personal responsibility, you know."

"He's filling Luna's ears with such poison, Hermione!" Theo whined as they wended their way towards the greenhouses, "I'm ruined! Ruined!"
"Come now, Theo. He'll calm–"
"He won't! He thinks I'm some sort of a degenerate! What if he convinces Luna she's better off without me?"
"You know that won't happen–"
"Fuck me, he called me a miscreant! Me! A miscreant! ME!"

All the while, Draco walked on a few metres away with his hands in his pockets and a swing in his step like he was Gene Kelly on the cusp of a dance.

With the NEWTs just thirty-three days away, Hermione's classmates finally achieved the level of fanaticism that she had acquired two months ago.

But of course, that didn't mean they were all now equally frazzled.
Oh no.
Hermione was still miles ahead. She was out of–

("Control!" Ginny upbraided, "You're out of control, Hermione!")

–patience. She was out of patience. She'd had to "regretfully" step away from their study group. She couldn't tone down her tempo to match theirs, and nor could she afford to take on the onus of their shortcomings. Neville was still mucking up water charms. Dean still couldn't manage human transfiguration. Nearly everybody found theory too boring to focus on for too long.

Unlike the week before, there was something gratuitously comforting about sitting on her own, steeped in schoolwork and revision. The nature of the quietness was insulating, not isolating. She didn't know how the other camp was faring: The primarily Ravenclaw, Terry-Anthony-Ernie -Now-With-Mandy-And-Etcetera study group. When she spoke to Padma she was pleasant and cordial, but bizarrely cagey, so Hermione decided to give herself the benefit of the doubt. She was head and shoulders ahead of them.
She was on top of it all.

Ah, sod it; she was drowning.

Spells were jammed between her teeth. Laws were pouring out of her ears. Runes were hiding in her hair. Equations swam in her bloodstream. She could barely keep up.

One night, a week after the anniversary dinner as she lay in bed trying to switch off, she wondered when she'd begin whistling like an overheated pressure cooker. Going from intense emotional strain to all that work-related stress was utterly maddening.
She closed her eyes and pictured Mentone beach in the early afternoon – warm from the sun, cool from the sea breeze. Scenic and calm.

She only ran on the weekends now – for no more than twenty minutes. It was all she could afford if she woke up at five-thirty sharp.

On one particular Saturday, thirty-one days before the NEWTs, she took five laps in front of the lake, and then, unexpectedly, had to dash halfway across the grounds because she spotted Hagrid stepping out of his cabin and was afraid he'd offer her a cup of tea. Just as she slowed to a stroll it began to rain. The cool spray felt lovely against her heated skin, so she didn't scurry towards shelter. She pushed back the hair that had escaped from her plait and tilted her face upwards.
She was proper soaked by the time she got back indoors.
The dark corridors were draughty, and Hermione shivered. Still she didn't dry herself off, didn't cast a warming charm. The chill was vivifying; she trembled and smiled absently to herself. She moved like sodden driftwood in a brook – gliding and gliding, caught on a wave and trembling, upstream and up staircases, down narrow channels and hallways –

The door to the music room was open just a crack, just enough for light from within to beckon, and she floated right in without a thought or care – like driftwood – sodden, trembling –
A short, sweet melody swirled around her before stopping abruptly. Draco looked up at her with frank surprise, brows furrowed with confusion. He blinked a few times.

"What are you doing here?"
"I–"
Seeing as she was, in essence, driftwood, Hermione found words to be particularly challenging just then. He turned away from her, like he had grown tired of looking at soggy lumber.
"What is it?" he pressed, stroking his fingers along the fallboard as he frowned.
She eyed the action for a second, while full sentences took shape in her mind.
"What were you playing? It was really lovely."
"It was," he agreed.
"Why did you stop?"
"Because you fucking burst in, didn't you?"
"Right." She scuffed her muddy trainer against the floor. "Sorry about that."
He sighed heavily and rolled his eyes. "Oh, it's fine, Granger."

There was such intense frustration and sarcasm in his tone. Well then. Driftwood was flammable too.

"So, continue then," she demanded haughtily.
He shot her a brief, irritated glance. "Is that an order?"
"No. Please continue, Malfoy, please."

There you go. She could produce that perfect sarcastic tone, too.

But he played. And it truly was lovely. Hermione moved a bit to the right so she could lean against the wall by the door, but she didn't dare go any closer, lest she break his concentration again.
She didn't know the piece. It was overwhelmingly sweet – sentimental, even, and it brought to mind pure romanticism; blooming gardens, soft gold, a summer breeze...
It ended far too soon, on a gentle note that bloomed into an iridescent bubble of tranquillity.

Hermione was scared to speak, to breathe. She didn't want it to burst.

Morning had staked its claim properly by then. It had stopped raining. The room was sundrenched and Draco was swathed in its light, dappled in refracted hues from the stained-glass windows. His eyes were downcast, and he slowly pulled in his lower lip, sinking his teeth into the soft, pink flesh.

Hermione decided she ought to leave. She really ought to. Right now. Draco's lip slid out from under his teeth, even pinker than before. She should push away from the wall and leave. He began randomly pressing down on keys.

"My mother composed that," he said suddenly, in between two high notes.
"She composed what?" Hermione asked stupidly.
He closed his eyes and huffed. "The Hawkshead Attacking Formation, of course."
"Huh? Wha– Oh. You meant that piece."
"You dazzling genius."

It was her turn to huff, though she wanted to smile – actually she didn't want to smile, but her blasted mouth had decided to anyway.

"It's really quite lovely."
He resumed his random tinkering. "So you've said."

His sleeves were rolled up again, all the way up to his elbows. Hermione averted her eyes, choosing instead to focus on his unbuttoned collar–
On the way his fringe fell–
On the scene outside the window.
Trees, sky. Cut into facets. Pretty.

"Do you compose as well?"
"Nah."
"Did she – your mother, I mean – teach you how to play?"
"No," he replied with a mellifluous chuckle, "She tried, but apparently I was a bit difficult as a child, and required a stricter hand than she was capable of presenting."
Hermione laughed as well, but she didn't dare look at him.

She looked at him, and he was still watching his fingers hit random keys.

"She called in this disagreeable vulture from Austria to teach me. He hated me, I hated him, but he loved the piano we had, so he stuck around for six years."
"Had to have been a really impressive instrument," she smiled.
He peered up at her, a sharp smirk set in place. "It really was."

He looked back down; she looked back out the window.

"Is it the one that's in your room now?"

The absolute silence that followed made her want to physically pull back her words and jam them down her throat. She gingerly turned her head and found him gazing at her with his eyebrows raised high.

"I haven't been in your room," she blurted hastily, "I promise."
His chin lowered. His brows rose higher still.
"It was Theo's fault. He called me over. And – I didn't step in. Stood by the door, really, I–"
"What the hell was Theo doing in my room?"

His manner was inexplicably nonchalant. He resumed his piano key plucking. It worried her.

"He was – well, the butterflies."
"Ah."
"Which I had NO hand in, whatsoever. I didn't help him, I didn't give him the idea, I didn't do anything. In fact, I told him he was being daft, repeatedly."
Draco sniggered. (-dum-da-da-dum-)
"Relax, Granger. If you were involved, I suspect I'd be suffering a great deal more than I am."

She let out a breathy laugh, taking stock of the relaxed slope of his shoulders and the tiny brackets at the upturned corners of his mouth.
She remembered the existence of an evil green alarm clock, and her blood ran cold. And for goodness sake, she was still in damp clothes; falling ill was the last thing she needed right now.

"So, um," she stood up straight and cleared her throat, "I'll be off."
"Finally," he drawled, eyes fixed on the piano keys. But the ghost of his grin still lingered.
She left him with a sardonic, "Ha ha."

Jogging up to the common room, she wondered if it would be bad form to demand Theo give the clock back... give his birthday gift back...
Bugger.
Serendipitously, the end of that thought coincided with her meeting Theo just outside the common room door.

"Hello," she grinned.
He took in her appearance and came across fairly taken aback. "What happened to you?"
"I got caught in the rain."
"No shit, Hermione. But you have heard of drying charms, haven't you?"
"I couldn't be bothered," she shrugged, "Have to shower anyway. But where are you off to?"
"Where I'm always off to. It's either you or him disappearing all the time and I'm the poor twat who has to go hunting."
She pursed her lips and gave him a look. "He's in the music room."
His expression took on a curious tilt as he searched her face for god knows what. "That's generally the first place I look. Is he moping?"
"No." She clasped her hands and stared at his shoulder. "He was playing his mother's composition. I stopped to listen."
"Ah yes. Pretty piece. But you should listen to Draco's stuff. He's better – Narcissa will be the first to say it."
Hermione frowned, and what felt like a ball of solid lead dropped into her stomach.
"He composes as well?"
"Yeah."
"Oh."
"What?"
"Nothing."

She took a breath and smiled at him. "See you after breakfast?"
"Sure, just tell me one thing first..."
"Hm?"
"You went in – in front of Draco – like that?"
She bristled. "Looking like a drowned rat? Yes, I bloody well did. What of it?"
"Er, Hermione." He paused and twisted his mouth to the side, looking both hesitant and wildly amused. "Hermione. Your top is quite, quite see-through."
"WHAT?!" she squawked in horror. She looked down and sure enough, saw the distinct outline of her bra. With a squeak she crossed her arms over her chest and ran. The door slammed shut behind her, before she could hear Theo burst into laughter – which he undoubtedly would.
Her mind was screaming every expletive it knew as she ducked her head and rushed into her room.

Why. Why did this stuff happen to her?

She fell back against her door and squeezed her eyes shut, wishing the wood would absorb her and keep her trapped forever. She could be a door, honestly, she wouldn't mind. A step up from driftwood, wasn't it?
Ah, shit.
Why why why.

She went and stood in front of her mirror. Her face was red and glowing, and her plait looked like a thick, frayed rope. She forced herself to examine her torso. Through the thin, white material, her powder blue bra stood out markedly. But it wasn't so bad. It was modest... and speaking of which, she was only modestly endowed.
Modest.
Even when her t-shirt was wetter and more transparent, she must have looked modest. In any case, Draco hadn't reacted at all. He'd barely even looked at her.
She peeled off the treacherous item of clothing, followed by her joggers and, standing in her modest, pastel underthings, she scowled. Nearly all her bras and knickers were modest and pastel. Perhaps she ought to invest in something more exciting. Something black and lacy, or bright red and skimpy...
Would Draco look at her then?

What the fuck?

She jumped away from the mirror and stumbled into the bathroom. She stood under a stream of hot water and did the quickest, most methodical job of washing herself. A moment's pause and she'd have ended up hitting her head against the tiles. Repeatedly. Was this really what her life had come to?
She dressed very quickly too, not going anywhere near the mirror, while reciting the runic alphabet out loud, over and over again.

Fuck the world, fuck her life.

"...raido, kenaz, gebo..."

Malfoy. She had to make such a fool of herself in front of him. Of all people, him.

"...wunjo, halagaz, nauthiz..."

But he had looked at her. Sparingly. Was that propriety or disinterest?

"...Isa... Jera..."

Had he really not noticed?

"EIHWAZ-PERTH-ALGIZ-SOWULO–"

XXX

She stayed sat crossed-legged on her bed, nibbling on biscuits her parents had sent her, veering wildly between intense revision and suppressing a strong impulse to leap out of her window.

She wondered what must have transpired between Theo and Malfoy.

Theo might have said, "So I hear you saw Hermione earlier?"
"Yeah," Draco would reply.
"You saw her, huh?"

She moaned and planted her face in her mattress. What would he say to that? What? What?
But then again... she slowly lifted her head and stared blankly ahead... Theo wouldn't bring it up at all, would he?
He wouldn't.
Would he?
She'd never survive a fall from such a height. How absolutely perfect.

So alright, she'd jump. After this chapter here...

And the morning passed in this manner.

At noon, her stomach launched a violent rebellion that shut down her entire system. The higher ups in her cerebral cortex were forced to freeze all function, which in turn completely immobilised the manual labour department.
Her hands lay folded uselessly on her lap, and she nibbled on her lip.
The demand for food was not to be suppressed, not even by a battalion of reason and impending mortification. And then reason turned against her. It joined rank with voracious hunger and pounded impending mortification into dust.
To hell with it.
He had acted like nothing was awry, and so could she. That's all – nothing happened. She would eat quickly, and go to the library; thirty one days till D-day. Ob la di, ob-la-da, life goes on...
Bra.
She hated herself. She put on her shoes and left the room.

No sooner did she step into the common room, than Theo was on her, brimming with umbrage.

"Do you have any idea how long I've been waiting for you?"
"Um, sorry–"
"You said we'd meet up after breakfast–"
"Yes, but I got a bit caught up in–"
"Where's your fucking galleon?"
"My galleon?"
"Yes! I must have sent you two dozen messages!"
"Oh," she blinked, "I don't keep it on me anymore."
"But you must!" he demanded indignantly, "You absolutely must!"
"Well, alright. Now shh, calm down."

She took his elbow and led him down to the Great Hall. Obviously, calm down he didn't, so she listened to him rant at length about unreliable, constantly disappearing best friends and the utter parody that was his life.
They parted ways to get to their respective tables. Malfoy didn't make an appearance, and it was only after she'd eaten and found her way back to her secluded table in the library that she realised she hadn't been breathing easy at all.

XXX

Much, much later, she emerged from the world of magical weaponisation with the suddenness of being snapped out of a hypnotic state. All the lamps around her were blazing, and the shadows had lengthened and thickened. Nine o'clock. She wasn't in the mood to race down to catch the fag end of supper. She would just make do with biscuits again.
To her weary and abstracted mind, the corridors of Hogwarts looked like a secret underground complex – a railroad where Nazis might have hidden precious art, or a catacomb under the streets of Rome...

And she spotted him at the end of the passageway. It seemed she was always spotting him at the ends of passageways.

Her first instinct was to flee.

But he was not alone. There were six fourth year students there too, and they were all crouched on the ground, amid a pile of books and parchment and stationary. Hermione made a beeline towards him and as she got closer, realised that they were also standing in a shallow puddle.

"What happened?" she exclaimed.
"Peeves," said Draco and a few of the others.

She dropped into a squat next to him and picked up the book nearest to her. It was thoroughly soaked, so she went about the business of casting a drying spell. She kept her eyes lowered when she held it out to him, choosing to watch his fingers as they clasped the book.
"Thanks," he muttered.
Draco kept a lot more in his bag than the kids, who quickly sorted their stuff out and went on their way. It was just him and her and the flickering lamps, flaring and ebbing almost in tandem with her pulse.

Silence while involved in a task was all right, but silence while walking side by side was unendurable; especially if she wanted to avoid a resurrection of the mortification squadron.
The moment she handed him the final bit of parchment she burst out with, "You never answered my question."
He arched a brow at her as he repaired the strap of his bag. "What question?"
"About your piano. The one you have with you in your room. In your flat. Is it the same one that was in the manor?"

There had to have been a more coherent way of phrasing that.

"Why do you care?" he groused absent-mindedly. His shoes squelched as he walked. "Fucking nasty berk of a poltergeist..."
"I'm just curious," she muttered.
"Huh?" He aimed a drying charm at his feet.
"...About your piano."
"What are you–" He look at her, exasperated, as he tucked his wand into his pocket. "No, Granger. It isn't the same bloody piano."

They'd started walking again – in search of the Wałbrzych gold train – lamps to the right of them, lamps to the left of them, sanity behind them.

"I see," stated Hermione.
He let out a heavy expulsion of air.

She peeked up at him, and realised that he looked rather tired himself. Bedraggled, too.

"I didn't take a damned thing from the Manor," he said in a low voice, "But for a few personal belongings."
She sensed that she wasn't to say anything yet. There was a faint variation at the end of his sentence that suggested there was more –
"I don't want a damned thing from the Manor."
At this point, his mouth clamped shut with finality.
"Are you planning to sell it off, like Theo?"
"Can't," he retorted shortly, "Isn't mine to sell."
"So, it's just going to..."
"Waste away?" He laughed bitterly, "Probably. At least until father gets out and reclaims it. I doubt mother's ever coming back."

Even in profile, she could tell his eyes were flinty and cold. Clearly, he wasn't going to say anything more.

"My parents' sold off our house over the hols," she offered, "I know what it's like, not having a home–"
"I have a home," he snapped, "You know, where the manor piano isn't."
"Um, yes, but–"
"I like my flat," he added roughly, "It's home."
"Yes, yes, it's very nice. Comes with the world's most trying flatmate and all. But what I meant was–"

She heard a little sigh of a laugh. She looked up, he looked down and it was a meeting of ironic half-smiles.

"He's an odious little shit, yes. At least the Dark Lord didn't traumatise me with songs about pyjamas and bananas."
Hermione's hand jumped up to her mouth and she giggled into the back of her hand. "I don't suppose he brought tacky, glittery ornaments for your living room?"
"No, just the occasional round of people to torture... a snake the size of a river... the general stench of death–"
"But at least there weren't any butterflies."
"There weren't, bless him. And nor did he spend entire nights shagging his extremely vociferous girlfriend–"

She had to stop walking for her laughter, tickled to death and simultaneously horrified at the picture her brain presented her with: Voldemort in the throes of passion... Ugh. Draco stopped too, a little ahead, and turned around with a smirk that was stained with a sort of triumphant overlay, like he was celebrating the fact that he'd managed to completely overturn her attempt at having a serious discussion.
...Or something. Hermione didn't care.

"Oh dear," she wheezed.
"Deer. Merlin. Don't even get me started on how much worse it was when Theo had those antlers. Luna is fucking strange."

She laughed harder. They were at the foot of the staircase leading up to their tower, and by the time she sobered some, Dean, Neville, and Hannah were standing around her, asking what was so funny. She shook her head and began climbing up the stairs.
Halfway up, a crabby bellow chased after them – "Why weren't you at supper?!" – And they all about-turned.
Theo marched up and stopped in front of her. She ran a hand through her hair with tired uneasiness and sighed, "I was in the library and lost track of–"
"Of course you did. Again. Fucking hell, Hermione. You're going to wither out of exis–"
"I'm fine–"
"Even Ginny says so!"
"Well, tell her I'm fi–"
"And you!" He spun around, pointing an accusing finger at Draco. "Where were you?"
Draco looked down his nose at his simmering petitioner. "I was the victim of an ambush."
"Huh?"
"Peeves attacked me with water balloons and sliced my bag open."

Theo stared impassively, even as Dean began to snigger under his breath.

"Well," he said by and by, "I commend him."
"I hope he gets you tomorrow then," Draco sneered.

They moved in a slow huddle, like a lone summer cloud over a field of daffodils, and drifted into the common room. Theo slung one arm around Hermione and Draco each.
"Daddy worries about you, my pets," he professed.
She pushed him away, chuckling at the interminable revulsion on Draco's face. Muttering a vague farewell, she slinked back into her room for another three to four hours of quiet revision.

At five in the morning, her eyes opened and she was at once wide awake. Sweat ran down the length of her spine. She kicked away her duvet; the motion caused an intense pang to rip through her. She twisted one leg over the other so very tightly and splayed her hands over her pelvic bones. Then slowly, she let one squeeze into the space between her legs.

Her core was throbbing like mad – she could feel it, she could feel it – her legs untangled and she slipped inside her knickers. Just one light stroke elicited a full body shudder. She closed her eyes and pictured a handsome torso... and a hand, two hands... hands that slid down her body, and up again to squeeze her breasts...
That's it. That's all it took. Her body twisted and her mouth fell open.
She felt like she'd been struck by lightning.

Sunday progressed like a drive over rough terrain in her grandfather's old, decrepit Morris Minor. By the time the sun set, Hermione felt rattled, exhausted, and a little sickly.

After a warm shower to recuperate and banish sleep, she left her room in a rush. Her satchel bounced against her leg as she skipped down the stairs and across the common room, and then twined around her when she stopped suddenly and spun, as her name was called out.

"Yes?" she asked Theo, performing a quick and hopefully discrete examination of her shirt.
He shuffled over to her with a bit of trepidation, pulling at his scarf's hold around his neck.
"You're going to the library, yeah?" he asked, "To meet Draco?"
"To study arithmancy," she amended.
"With Draco?"
"...Yes."
He nodded, biting the inside of his cheek. There was a deal of undeniable restlessness in his conduct. So she asked, "What's the matter?"
"Go easy on him," he muttered.
"What – what do you mean?"
Theo huffed, and ran a hand through his hair. "He just got back from Azkaban a short while ago. He'll be a bit... probably very... edgy. Maybe even prattish. Let it slide, alright? Please."
She swallowed and pulled up her sleeves. "Okay."
"Seriously," he pressed, "You have a way of phrasing things in a way that – I mean – just – go easy on him."
"I said I would, didn't I?" She pulled down her sleeves.
"Yeah, all right. Good."
"Theo?" She pulled up one sleeve.
"Hm?"
"Why don't you ever go with him? You've always said Lucius was something of a father to you."
He half-smiled, but it was utterly cheerless. "He blames me for Draco's defection, his supposed betrayal. Which is fine, honestly. At least that means he's borderline cordial around him." He clicked his tongue before Hermione could say anything more, and gently pushed her towards the door. "Go on. Off with you."
So she went.

Of course Theo was the impetus behind Draco's apostasy. One moment he was pulling her into an alcove, commanding her to ensure Theo's safety... and the next he was taking down his own comrade-in-arms at Bill and Fleur's wedding, shoving information into Lupin's hands...
Hermione stopped just short of the library and pulled in a deep breath.
Stuttering again, Granger? Shit, you're a dreadful conversationalist.
The moment came back to her in a Technicolor flashback: His scornful, vexing smirk and his duplicity.
Except it wasn't – he wasn't –

Another deep breath, and she entered the library.

He was sitting at their usual table. Looking up as soon as she emerged into his line of sight, he gave her a curt nod and rifled through his stack of parchment while she got settled. He continued to rifle long after she was ready, her books out, her quill in the inkpot, her arms daintily crossed. He was frowning, not deeply, but in a preoccupied way. His sleeves were down and buttoned.
She had to clear her throat twice to get him to look at her.
"Hello. Shall we get started?" she smiled.

What was she doing? This kind of fluttery pleasantness was bound to aggravate him as much as open antagonism. Tone it down, you twit.

There it was: He scowled. "Sure."

"You know," she said, smoothening her perfectly smooth parchment, "I remembered another delightfully hilarious book that you simply must read."
"Is that so," he droned tonelessly.
"Oh yes," she blabbered on, "Three Men in a Boat. I'll warn you against reading it in public; you might end up making an absolute fool of yourself."
...Much like I am at this moment.
He oozed disinterest. And yet she blathered away – "Indeed. You should read it."
"Okay."
"You really should–" Oh god Hermione, shut up– "Right away."
"Right away," he repeated dully, lackadaisically, frown still in place.
"Yes, because, you know... it's all a part of my plan."
"Plan."

How had his expression not changed at all?

"Yes, my clever, diabolical plan to sabotage you!"

The longer he kept looking at her like that, the shorter her life expectancy got.

"Like you'd claimed before. That I – that I was sabotaging your future using literature. Trying to get you to fail."
He didn't even blink as he said, "Right."

She picked up her quill and printed ARITHMANCY across the top of her page, just so she wouldn't have to look at him anymore.

"I asked Vector for some equations for practice, since we've gone through the entire text book and past papers," Malfoy divulged, and dropped a long scroll between them. "They're supposedly extremely challenging – here's the answer sheet."
And he put down another scroll.
"All right," Hermione mumbled.

He hadn't been wrong – the equations were extremely challenging. Hermione had to vanish away her work three times before arriving at a plausible answer, which when tallied against the answer sheet, turned out to be completely off beam.
"How?!" she hissed.
She combed over her calculations, redid them, and tried a different method; nothing worked.
"What the hell?"
"Shut up, Granger," Malfoy ticked her off.
"This doesn't make sense!" she fumed.
"What doesn't make sense?"
That's when she noticed he'd managed to cover a good foot and a half of parchment. She tried to lean over and have a proper look, but with a flick of his wand he turned the sheet over.
"Hey!" she exclaimed, "I was just trying to–"
"Copy my work?"
"No! Just trying to see if you've got the right answer."
"Of course I've got the right answer," he chided with a curl of his lip.
"But how?"
"What do you mean how? They're quite straightforward, not challenging at all."
Hermione's airways were closing. "Not challenging?" she squeaked.
"No." He was regarding her like she'd vomited all over the table.
"How many have you done?"
"Four."
"Four?!"

She peered at her calculations closely, with her nose nearly touching the parchment. Yet, she couldn't fathom what she'd done wrong, what she'd missed. She skipped over to the next one – off by four integers – ugh, fine, once more – off by four integers – fuck this – again – OFF BY FOUR –
She skipped to the third.
She got it completely wrong.

"What is this absolute rubbish?!" she snarled, throwing her quill down.
"Granger, are you quite alright?"

He was just sitting there with his stone cold icy frowny sodding nonchalance like a smug equation solving supercilious patronising knobhead... She was supposed to go easy on him. Bletch.

"How," she ground out, "Are you managing to solve any of these?"
He didn't answer. Hermione watched incredulously as he thrust his belongings into his bag and stood up.

"Where are you going?"
"Supper. Theo might have a stroke if we don't show up."
"I'm not going anywhere until I've figured these out!"
He shrugged. "Suit yourself."
"Malfoy, wait," she beseeched, "Please."

Sighing, he placed his palms on the table and leaned forward, presenting her with the mien of a persecuted man.

"Could I please have a look at your work?"
"No."
"Oh, come on!"
"Not a chance," he quipped.
"Why not?!" she wailed, "I haven't solved a single equation!"
"You probably have."
"No, I haven't! The answer sheet–"
"Is bogus," he cut in, "Bullshit. I wrote down random numbers under the table while you were rambling on about that book."

Hermione's heart stopped beating and sank to her stomach. Her lungs deflated.

"What," she quavered. Finally, her expression felt as blank as his. "What?"
"Do you need me to repeat what I said," he enquired lightly.
Her temples where pounding. "Why would you... Why?"

He watched her closely, eyes roaming across her face. He tapped his right index finger against the table twice, before pushing himself into an upright position.
"Don't you see?" he said, "It's all a part of my diabolical plan to sabotage you."

Then he grinned. Suddenly. Blindingly. And he left.

Unfortunately, not a single bookshelf suffered a bizarre lapse of basic physics, and he was able to escape without getting lethally crushed. She watched his dapper frame and foul hair till they disappeared from her sight, and she was SEETHING.
She wanted to throw things (at him,) set things on fire (and throw them at him,) curse very loudly (at him)...
She blistered under the influence of that dangerous cocktail of fury until all she could do was put a hand over her eyes and dissolve into hysterical laughter.

Anthony was the first one to botch his Repleo Draught. Rather than stirring in octopus powder slowly, he dumped in the entire amount at once. His potion curdled, and Slughorn tut-tutted bumptiously.

"Impatience never pays, Mr. Goldstein."

Not two days later, Susan messed up, through no fault of her own. She was only being an upstanding head girl, comforting a young boy who'd had a total breakdown; his mother had been killed during the war.
So as it was, by the time Susan got to the dungeons to add dew to her potion and lower the heat, it was already burnt. Slughorn was duly sympathetic, but said that there wasn't enough time for her to start over.

Twenty-seven days to go. Permanent agitation and pins-and-needles.

That afternoon, in Transfiguration, McGonagall placed her hand on Hermione's desk and said, "Transfigure my hand into a paw."
"Beg your p–pardon, Professor?" she stuttered with wide eyes.
"Are you not confident in your grasp of human transfiguration, Ms. Granger?"

She was. She absolutely was – she could perform it wandlessly. But this was Minerva McGonagall's hand. How could she possibly be blasé about it?

"What kind of paw?" she whispered, "Cat, dog... lion, tiger, bear..."
McGonagall's mouth thinned. "Surprise me."

She went with lion because she hoped, thoughtlessly, that it would flatter the stern woman. However, she didn't seem remotely gratified when Hermione was successful. All she said was, "Very well done," in a crisp tone and turned her paw back into a hand.

She went from person to person, demanding they transfigure her hand, and witnessed various degrees of success. Her students' reactions ranged from consternation to sheer terror. And for whatever reason, everybody decided that a lion's paw was the way to go; with the exception of Padma, (who went with tiger), Ginny (wolf), Ernie (bear), and Draco (rabbit).

("Mind if I cut it off and keep it for good luck?" Theo, who was sitting next to him piped up.
McGonagall shot him a withering glare.)

There were paws with missing claws, paws that were too large or too small, too hand-like, too amorphous blob-like. These instances were followed by a dry, "Do practice, please."

Finally, she stopped before Dean who'd been cowering at the very back of the classroom.
"Professor," he whimpered, "I really don't think this is a good idea."
She disagreed, he insisted, and the dispute carried on for a few minutes, before McGonagall barked an order in her most unyielding tone. Dean's wand was raised in a flash.
Another flash later, McGonagall's skin had peeled off her hand like a banana. A chorus of ill-suppressed screams ripped across the room.
"SHIT! HOLY SHIT!" Dean yawped, "I'm sorry! Professor, I'm so sorry!"
She pulled back her skin with a mere flex of her fingers. "Calm yourself, Mr. Thomas. I will not give you detention for failing at this task, but I certainly will if you swear in my presence."
"Yes, of course. I'm sorry."
She looked down her nose at him, then strode back to the front of the classroom.
"I suggest," she added over her shoulder, "A little more practice."

The whole week was a whirlwind, having to sit for mock tests in all her lessons. There wasn't much to feel discouraged about: Her runes essay was well received, her shield charms were impenetrable, and all her arithmantic equations were spot on. That final accomplishment won her a wink from Draco, which was one of the most baffling things she'd ever had to recover from.

On Friday evening, she reluctantly agreed to help Dean practice human transfiguration.
"I have to get to my potion in exactly an hour," she warned him.
He set about trying to transfigure a very unwilling Neville's hair red. After about half an hour, his apprehensive, half-arsed attempts had bequeathed nothing more than a vague copper tone to the locks.
"Stop faffing, Dean!" she urged, "Put some force behind it!"
"Yeah," seconded someone from the small audience they'd amassed, "Stop being such a wet little wimp!"

Dean jabbed his wand right into Neville's hair; it turned a lurid shade of magenta.

"Close enough," Hermione sighed, "I'm sorry Dean, I have to go."

She ignored his groan and Neville's cry of, "Oi! At least fix my hair before you–"

Blessed peace enveloped her once outside. She entered the potions' classroom with ten minutes to spare, and found Draco seated behind his cauldron, with a clicking timer and a pile of minced anjelica at hand.
"Cutting it a bit fine, aren't you?" he greeted.
"No," she averred and dashed into the supply cupboard.
It didn't take her long to crush the required number of stalks, and as she waited for the timer to go off, she wondered, "Where the hell is Padma?"
"She isn't coming."
"Why ever not?"

Ding! – The timer sounded.
She measured out one ounce of minced anjelica and tipped it into her potion. It instantly turned a milky green colour. Draco set the timer again, and then sat back even more at ease than before, propping his legs up on the stool next to his. Hermione got comfortable too; they had thirty-two minutes to kill, after all.

"Why isn't Padma here?" she asked again.
He didn't reply at once, taking time to conjure a cushioned backrest for his functional, standard-issue stool.
"She is," he eventually disclosed, "Under the impression that we are to add the anjelica tomorrow."
"Oh no!" Hermione lamented, "But hold on. If you knew she had it wrong, why didn't you correct her?"
"Why would I?" he challenged.
"Because it's the decent, sporting thing to do!"
"Pff."
"She wants to be a healer, Draco. Successfully brewing this potion would have helped her prospects immensely!"
"Would you want a healer who can't even follow basic instructions?"
Hermione crossed her arms and glared. "She isn't a healer yet! She's going to learn–"
"Yeah, and now she knows the importance of reading instructions closely. I've taught her a valuable lesson. You should be commending me."
"You're an absolute bastard."
He sniggered, tipping his head and causing his hair to sweep back. "Now," he remarked, "I just have to wait for you to mess up."
"I never mess up."
"We'll see."

She had to be losing her mind, because whenever he was like this – playful, teasing, full of humour – she felt squeamish and something akin to shy. She picked up her measuring spoon and began carving runes in the anjelica that remained on her chopping board.

"I considered becoming a healer for three days," said Draco offhandedly.
She smiled at her rune art. "Just three days?"
"Yeah. Then I remembered I hate blood and dis–"
"Only certain kind of blood, right?"

He stopped talking. Her squeamishness took on a different quality. Well, crap. She peeked up and met his slightly stunned glower with a sinking heart. She didn't want to fight; hadn't the inclination nor the patience for it. Fights meant investing time in disdain, meant dealing with sneery, caustic, irascible Draco.
So she bit her lip over a smile, puckered her brow, and shrugged wryly. Like, aha, just kidding, geddit?
His brows shot up over wide eyes. He shook his head, dispelling a short disbelieving and winded laugh.

"So you hate blood?" she rejoined with a controlled smirk.
He took another moment to speculate, biting the corner of his lip. "Yeah. All blood. Every kind. Can't stomach it."
"That might come in the way of healing, I suppose." She rested her folded arms on the table and leaned forward.
"Diseased skin makes me ill."
"You are such a delicate little flower."

That amused him for some reason, and he chuckled. He then leaned forward too.

"They're called refined sensibilities, Granger. Why do you think I abhorred Weasley from the day I first beheld him?"
"Ron's skin isn't diseased!" she remonstrated.
He'd stolen her smirk and he wore it with pride. "Are you sure, though?"
"YES–"
"Really sure?"
"You're an id–"
He leaned in further. "It's a good thing you two never got together. What if you'd caught his dreadful affliction? Such a terrible shame it would have been if he'd marred your–"

There was a thunderous crash from outside the room, followed by a stream of howled oaths. Hermione and Draco exchanged a startled glance.
Theo came hobbling in, bent awkwardly as he clutched his leg and dragged his bag behind him.

"What happened?" Hermione cried, jumping off her stool.
"Fucking tripped, didn't I?" he grumbled, "Here's a lesson, don't leave your shoelaces untied."
"Thank you," she drawled tartly, "But I've known that since I was about five."
He stuck his tongue out at her. She struggled to not reciprocate.

Now that she knew he was alright, she felt a hot spike of irritation. He always had impeccable timing, didn't he? Could he not have delayed his fall by three seconds? She glanced at Draco, and he was smiling slyly at Theo, his previous sentence clearly forgotten.
...If he'd marred your...? Marred your?

"What brings you here, Theodore?" he probed.
"Boredom, Dracodore."
"Where's Luna gone off to?" Hermione huffed.
Theo looked at her a tad quizzically. "Magical Creatures. And Thomas and Longbottom are creating an awful ruckus in the common room. I couldn't stand it."

The timer went off then, and Hermione and Draco tipped their remaining anjelica into their respective cauldrons. The potion within glowed a perfect mint green, and they quickly covered them with a lid.

"Is it done?" Theo asked.
"Nearly," said Draco, "Needs to simmer for ninety-eight hours."
"Then we can go eat?"

Theo made them walk very slowly, so it took an immoderately long time for them to get to the Great Hall. They parted at the door, and Hermione walked stiffly to her table. She felt dissatisfied and it was annoying. As annoying as Neville's reproachful look, blaming her for whatever silliness he'd had to endure earlier. She flopped down on the bench and helped herself to some chicken. After two bites, she rubbed her unfreckled cheek and sighed.

As another Saturday morning rolled in, Hermione vowed to only wear thick black t-shirts (reinforced with a water-repelling charm) while running.

The rising sun, the glossy lake, the trees in summer bloom were all mere blips in her disconnected reverie. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the runes she'd examined the night before. Delphi's prophesies rang in her ears in Bellatrix's low rasp.

But also, the thing was, surely he thought her skin was at least somewhat nice, if it was liable to get marred.

If the previous week had zipped by, the one that followed was a veritable blur. She barely remembered anything that had happened. Did she even remember the things she'd read, the things she'd purportedly mugged up?

She stopped dead on her way to the library to go over the characteristics of motile plants.

Ginny detained her, and stood persistently in her path, imploring her to come outside.

"Look! Just look at how lovely the weather is!"
"I don't care–"
"I'm not asking you to get on a broom, you ninny. Come soak up some sun, get some fresh air."

No no no no. Hermione put both her feet down. Ginny stomped off sulkily, and Hermione went on her way with no regret. She needed to concentrate fully, and wasn't going to allow anyone or anything to mar her concentration.

The NEWTs were seventeen days away.