Woven

WOVEN

Hermione hastily removed the light coating of dust from her desk with a cloth and tossed it into her bag; there was no sense in arousing Snape's ire by leaving dust rags in his rooms. The others had not yet arrived, and for the few moments' worth of peace, she was content to review the previous session's homework and revel in the time to herself.

Harry and Ron, despite their best intentions, would never compel or fascinate her as they tried, and that particular day's lunchtime had been no exception. It was Quidditch this and Quidditch that, none of which was conducive to conversation from her point of view. Why add to the disintegration of what few academically-oriented brain cells they retained? When the intrinsic Quidditch movements and the significance of the Wronski Feint replaced the entirety of their knowledge regarding classes and academia, she would show no sympathy whatsoever.

Snape entered the room in a flurry of billowing black robes and noticed, with his characteristic displeased sneer, her unwanted presence.

"Really, Miss Granger," he commented in his usual scathing, deep tones. "I would have thought that even YOU would have enough of a social life to occupy yourself for the extent of a single lunch hour. Obviously I overestimated your social skills."

It was as close to a self-satisfied smirk as she had ever seen him give; but rather than become upset, Hermione had to suppress the urge to bark a derisive laugh. He, speak of social skills? It was laughable, really, coming from someone with the worst case of social anxiety she had had the 'pleasure' of viewing.

"I am reviewing my work from our last class, Professor," she replied mildly, dotting an 'I' and flourishing the crossing of a 'T' to emphasize her point. "It has little to do with my social life."

"On the contrary," Snape retorted darkly, "it has everything to do with your social life--or lack thereof."

Hermione fought back a groan and wondered for how long he would insist upon badgering her. Fortunately, the arrival of several of her classmates quelled Snape's further desire to irritate her--he became blessedly silent, ruling the room from his desk and emanating power blackly and angrily.

Hermione was amidst thoughts of her intelligent professor's unfortunate case of misanthropy when Neville's book bag slammed down beside her. She recoiled with a jump and glanced up to find a red-faced Neville collapsing into his seat, nearly hyperventilating.

"What?" she demanded, sweeping her papers aside to focus all available attention on her partner's apparent trauma. "You look as though you ran the entire way."

"--did--" he managed to gasp while convulsing madly. "Malfoy--went--mad--"

"On a tirade, that one," Lavender Brown's voice soared clearly as she entered the doorway, causing both Hermione and Snape to turn from their observation of Neville. "I've never seen him so mad."

"He'll cool down eventually," Parvati assured her soothingly, and the two girls assumed their respective seats. Harry and Ron entered the room not long after. Ron was grinning from ear to ear and his face was not the slightest bit flushed. Hermione was immensely relieved--if he appeared normal, then the chance was slim that Harry and Ron had instigated any confrontation with Draco Malfoy.

As the remainder of the class filed into the room, Hermione noticed with acute perception that not only was Draco not among those present, but the topic of conversation never failed to mention his name. Most of those whom she heard were commenting profusely concerning Malfoy's apparent 'incident' after receiving a letter at lunchtime--unexpectedly, of course, and but a few minutes after she had left the Great Hall.

Odd, she thought to herself, and turned to regard her professor, the sight of whom startled her even more. Snape's typically sallow skin had become absolutely chalk-white when he heard the mention of a letter.

"Who spoke of that?" he thundered, and the room became instantaneously silent. "Who saw Malfoy receive a letter this morning?"

A few trembling hands were elevated, and Draco's usual calm demeanor and suave arrogance was noticeably absent.

"From whom came this letter?" Snape demanded. A few murmurs of 'don't know' and 'couldn't say' resounded, but no one answered conclusively. Snape, seemingly satisfied that their claims were credible, began to pace furiously in front of the class, muttering to himself.

The looks plastered on the students' faces were readable enough: Had he gone mad as well?

"Miss Parkinson!" he bellowed suddenly, and Pansy jumped a veritable mile in her seat. "I shall write a note that must be delivered to Headmaster Dumbledore immediately. It is CRUCIAL." He was already turning to face his desk, snatching wildly for parchment and papers, scribbling. "You will deliver this to him and do not--I repeat, do NOT--take leave of his presence until he writes me a reply.

"I don't care if you have to fly to London," Snape hissed as he shoved the paper into the frightened girl's hands. "Just FIND HIM."

"Y-Yes, Sir." Her speech stumbled and he waved his hand dismissively.

"Quit sniveling and MOVE!" She fled from the room, and the Slytherin students still in class were astounded at the treatment of one of their own.

"The rest of you--take out your assignment!" Snape already had his red pen in hand, ready to inflict scarring wounds. "Place the papers neatly--NEATLY, mind you--on my desk and begin immediately on the next potion listed in your book. One word out of any of you and I shall have you expelled."

Harry cleared his throat audibly and Ron was unable to keep from snickering in a muffled tone. Hermione contemplated kicking them underneath the tables--what were they thinking, when Snape was in such a mood?--but thought better of it.

She began brewing her potion as instructed, noting Draco's empty seat. It was incredible, really, that the room could feel palpably bereft without him. Harry, as luck would have it, knew that any display of pleasure or triumph on his part would be akin to declaring a death wish, and avoided Snape's gaze throughout the entire lesson. Ron, too, was apparently averse to suicide, and obeyed the directions implicitly.

A scarab beetle slipped from Hermione's fingers and she caught it with a hitch of her breath. Any more mistakes of that kind and her potion would not congeal properly.

What is the matter with you? she inquired of herself in light reprimand. Really, you ought to know better--Malfoy's business is none of your concern.

Besides which, she added, the class is better off without him.

**

Pansy Parkinson returned approximately thirty minutes later. She crept slowly into the room, wearing the look of one who had received too much admonition for daily comfort. Placing the letter meekly into Snape's outstretched hand, she then sought refuge in her desk, burying herself automatically in her work. Hermione sincerely doubted anyone would hear so much as a cough from the girl until the following Christmas.

Snape's black eyes were raking across the letter as though it might contain the secret to capturing Lord Voldemort. Hermione burned to know with what both Snape and Draco could possibly be involved, and arrived at only one sensible conclusion--the Death Eaters. It was well known, now, that Snape had been involved in the movement, though she, Ron, and Harry were the only ones to know of his reconnaissance work--and the possibility that it continued still. The Dark Lord had yet to succumb to their control, and until then, she highly doubted Snape would agree to remain on the sidelines of the fighting.

But even if he were heavily involved, in what way did that include Draco? If the Malfoy family were still involved with Lord Voldemort, surely he would not expect Draco to do his bidding within the confines of Hogwarts? The mere thought was ludicrous--to go through with it, right under the scrutiny of Albus Dumbledore, would be the catalyst that began the Third World War.

What, then?

Neville glanced at her through his peripheral vision, noted her swift movements of hand and the state of her potion's consistency, and then returned to his own work. Whether it was viscosity or color, Neville could never quite match Hermione's work, and it was to her standards--not even Snape's--that he compared himself and his skills. A true pity, Hermione realized, for sometimes even Snape was more lenient than many expected; she had received credit above the level of one hundred percent for many an assignment because others had failed so miserably where she had earned success.

Having finished her potion, Hermione dug through her book bag, biting her lip in concentration. It had to be there somewhere...SOMEWHERE....

Her fingers latched around a scroll, rolled tightly and sealed even more so, and she gave a low exhalation of happiness. Now she had only to pray that Snape, in his sudden fit of rage, fear, and frustration, would not notice her abysmally amateur attempt at garnering information to which she should not be exposed.

She approached him with understandable trepidation. The letter lay just where he had placed it, perched precipitously on the corner of his large oak desk. Her foot scuffed against the floor, and the sound echoed off the dank dungeon walls; Snape glanced up as a result, and their eyes met and locked.

"Professor?"

Before he had a chance to excoriate her, she spoke again. "I realize that you are busy, but if you would just sign this recommendation form for me, I would greatly appreciate it--"

"A recommendation for WHAT, Miss Granger?" he growled, literally tearing the paper from her hands.

"It's a summer course, Professor, and I need a recommendation from one of my teachers."

His obsidian eyes were treacherously close to burning a hole through the center of her brain and terminating her thought processes. "Why, Miss Granger, do you ask this of ME?"

Oh, damn. Why DID she ask it of him?

"Well, you see, Professor"--it was monstrously hard not to glance toward the letter; she had to have faith it was still there--"the program is at a university and is intended to introduce prospective students to various areas of study, and--"

He sighed. "Before I turn forty, Miss Granger, if you please."

"--potions is the area of interest which I intend to list," she gasped out, and his eyes flashed. They glanced down at the paper, and then back at her.

"I will sign this, Miss Granger, if you promise me one thing."

"What, Professor?"

"NEVER seek employment in the Ministry of Magic. Your skills would be atrociously wasted."

Hermione reeled from the shock--and the implications--of what he had just said. "Y-Yes, Professor, I had not intended to anyway."

"Good." His head bent over the paper and she stole the opportunity while it yet existed. Bending over as imperceptibly as possible, she skimmed the letter.

'...has already extended the invitation for Draco to join the Dark Lord's Circle--'

She reared up just in time--suddenly Snape was sitting straight again, holding the paper outright for her to take it.

"Thank you, Professor." She returned to her seat without another word.

**

The class exited the room excitedly--they had only one more subject, after all, and then Quidditch practice would consume the late afternoon for all teams. Directly following that was dinner, which promised a delectable treat for that evening, as Dumbledore had requested that the house-elves offer more of an 'ethnic variety' of foods.

"I heard this evening is French," one person chimed in. "Just think, all the pastries we can eat...."

Hermione's stomach lurched at the thought and she veered off course, heading toward Gryffindor Tower. Professor Vector was not strict about the time of her arrival, as the Potions classroom was most inconveniently located in the exact opposite side of the castle; she had time enough to return her Potions materials and gather her Arithmancy materials without worry of lowering her grade.

Scarcely had she turned down another hallway when she met with solid resistance that quickly gave way to form the tall, imposing physique of Draco Malfoy. Hermione shuddered as her books flew from her arms, and struggled to gather them with Draco's reluctant help.

She froze, bent double to lift the heavy textbooks, when she realized that he was helping her.

Draco--who was by now much taller than her, as she had, at sixteen, topped out at five-feet-six and he was already six feet--looked like an enfeebled but towering tree--external fortitude with internal confliction. His eyes were not red-rimmed, nor was his lip trembling, but she would not have been surprised, based upon his stoop-shouldered composure and meek gaze, if he had been crying. His pockets were stuffed with tissues, the white fabric of the handkerchief displayed visibly through the black fabric of his robes. The startling contrast of light on dark looked deliberate, intentional, as though it had been woven specifically for him.

Beautifully metaphoric, when considered--Draco was darkness and light embodied in one, a walking paradox to her; and especially during moments like these when he relinquished the desire to be a terror and offered normal human compassion.

"Careful where you're going," he snapped disdainfully, but she refused to be baited. His eyes scanned her up and down with tiny pinpricks, the touch tangible; he was suddenly abashed, and turned to escape her gaze.

He was walking past, she realized, and something in her did not want him to leave.

"Hey Malfoy," she called before he could take too many steps. Draco turned, so that he was facing her, but continued to walk backward ever so slowly, feeling first with the heel of his foot and then planting the sole firmly. Searching for ground, she realized symbolically--something to offer support, something to believe in. Surely Lord Voldemort could not offer all that?

"What?"

"What did you say to that invitation you got this afternoon?"

His last bit of composure and self-confidence drained as though in a waterfall from his face. His lips became bloodless, his eyes widened, and Hermione genuinely feared for a moment that she had rendered him deceased and was now viewing the horrified specter that remained.

She had expected at best a circumspect reply--at worst, a hex straight in the face. What followed made her weak-kneed with incredulity.

"I said not in a million years."

His face was still cold, she realized absently as he stared pointedly at her. The color had returned, though just slightly, and he was suddenly standing taller. A man, she thought, her throat clenching--she was no longer facing an adolescent boy, and certainly not one from whom she should solely expect malevolence and childish selfishness. No amount of book-derived intelligence could denounce the simple fact: Draco had, through simple experience, matured the quickest of all.

He was still facing her, as strongly as ever. She could not wrench her eyes from his, and wondered why he had not yet lashed out. Finally, he pivoted on his heel and turned to walk the opposite way.

**

Hermione was not late for Arithmancy, though it was only by a bare thread that she slipped into her seat before the class began. Her mind, suffering from preoccupation, would later have to work twice as hard to understand the equations that Professor Vector would put on the chalkboard; none of this particularly concerned her.

She saw him later, during dinner, sitting alone at the end of the Slytherin table. Sixteen years old and recruited by Voldemort--or was he seventeen? Perhaps he had enlisted in school a bit later than the rest of them. Either way, it was far too young. But then again, had Snape not been young when he was recruited? To still be thirty-something, there was nothing to indicate otherwise.

A man, she thought again, admiring for the first time the shrewdness with which he surveyed the Great Hall; the proud, haughty indifference; the refusal to meet the eye of his fellow Slytherins, the only concession of vulnerability. Some would oppose him, she thought resignedly--maybe some seventh-years were already allied with Voldemort, and would be furious at the thought of a Malfoy refusing the Mark. Nevertheless, it was clear in his every movement that he cared not for his family's ancestry and others' opinions; he did not want the position and would never surrender.

Hermione left her food untouched--it was Chinese, but she never made note of this. Harry would enlighten her of it later when he shook her from her inexplicable reverie; the object of her observation, as discerned by Harry, was somewhere in the proximity of the Slytherin table.