Saints and Slytherins

Things You Need to Know: This is in their sixth year (apparently, I like that year) and completely disregarding the sixth book, since I started this before HBP came out. Narrating inspired by J.M. Barrie's Peter Pan, which is one of my most favorite books in the entire mass of the world. So if you've read Peter Pan, the tone will be very familiar.

Chapter One: Ghastly November

It was mid-November.

As you know, being it is now autumn - and quite a vindictive one, at that - drafts were now customary visitors in the halls and dormitories, challenging Hogwarts' internal heating system, which merely consisted of happy blazes in the commons' fireplaces, warm wool jumpers, and the standard warmth spell for those who didn't want to bother with the latter. The air became sharp and nippy, snow was gathering amidst the heavy clouds, and gloom was dominant against the weak efforts of fickle sunshine. Again.

But with the exception of the steady drop in temperature, the exciting first snowfall of the year, the unattractive melt of the first snowfall of the year, class schedules were indifferent. Students were still religiously assigned tedious coursework, scolded and pressured on upholding house status, publicly criticized and humiliated by Snape, and almost killed by Hagrid and his weekly treacherous beast, otherwise classified as "cute" by the hazard himself. The abominable Filch still limped around, still loved his stupid cat, and was still aggravated by Peeves, as was the daily Poltergeist routine. They'd gotten new classes to prepare for the rough and menacing exams ahead, but it was nothing they hadn't handled before.

Draco Malfoy, however, was not just suffering from the Normal Day blues. I ought to tell you now that everyone would be fortunate not to know a person like Draco Malfoy, yet every child ends up happening to have the very sad acquaintance of one in life. It is usually a very uncomfortable position to be in, full of teeth gritting and fist making, for Draco was not exactly the most amiable person (although you ought to know that already by the second sentence of this paragraph) in the whole of Great Britain. It has been suggested by many that he was simply the offspring of the devil, but I am here to tell you that one shouldn't take the word of others - by the end of this story, you will find out the real truth of whether he is purely terrible or not.

But on this particular day, a day surely like no other, young Draco could feel dry knots forming in his stomach, watching each of his classmates carefully. He knew something terrible was going to happen and that wasn't such an unusual talent - most children, by the age of twelve, get the feeling sometimes and are rather accurate. He just knew very well that his father, back at the station, had not given him that look for nothing. He had seen that gleam in his eye, the confident twitch in his smirk, very befitting with his sweeping square jaw and icy stare, yet somehow still out of place, like a dog in a chicken kennel. But he recalled the shivers that had tingled down his spine, making him feel as if someone had just dropped an ice cube down his back. The feeling was dark and ominous. Anyone in his shoes would have known that they had planned something, and Draco intended to find out what very soon.

In the mean time, he had to keep his guard up. It was the only thing he could do, after all. He had to keep his eye on any Muggle-borns that were to suddenly disappear, Potter who might dim-wittedly take any of Voldemort's bait like fish to a worm, or any of his friends lurking about the castle after hours and snooping. Or, perhaps, stealing Polyjuice constituents from his Head of House's back room to undergo a hideous transformation into Crabbe and Goyle (I needn't tell you much about them - all you need to know is that a transformation into Crabbe and Goyle was always going to be hideous, no matter what), and for pitiful Mudblood Granger, a house cat. If any mother had been present, know for certain that she would have been brought down to her knees in tears, while later on giving poor Hermione Granger, cat girl (only temporarily, of course) a good slap on the wrist.

Yes, he knew all about that. It was amazing what a sleep-talker and a vengeful midnight escapade could reveal.

This moment would be the ideal time to tell you all about Harry Potter and his friends, Ronald Weasley (or Ron, just for short) and Hermione Granger, for those who aren't familiar with their fame. Harry Potter was famous for escaping an attempted murder by a hideous creature by the name of Voldemort - who Muggle and magical children have nightmares about, despite their happy ignorance of newspaper headlines - and leaving rather unscathed, with the exception of a scar on his forehead somewhat uncannily resembling a lightning bolt. He was legend because every year someone (Voldemort) insisted on trying to kill him and came very close - but never close enough. Ron Weasley was famous by association; he was also the comic relief in situations but quite the coward when it came to spiders and the like. Hermione Granger was famous by her connection with Harry Potter as well, but had single-handedly gained a reputation at Hogwarts for being bookish and a goody-goody, which was not too popular amongst her peers.

Now I must tell you that Draco Malfoy did not like them the least bit. It would be an awfully long story to tell you why and how that came to be, so I won't, for it will overlap this story and this is the story I must tell. It is just that children stubbornly know who they must hate and who they must favor - the basis of compatibility, as grown-ups say.

But let us wander back to Draco. Draco was disconcerted by the fact that his father hadn't bothered to tell him anything about their plan. After all, he had been on the Inside for as long as anyone could remember. They needed someone else to assist in doing their dirty work in Hogwarts rather than professor Snape, who had always been fairly hesitant to do any work at all for the Dark Lord, but a good actor by standards, so he got through more often than he ever should. He always rambled on in this elaborate, dull spiel about suspicion, and Dumbledore's trust, and again about suspicion. If he hadn't carried the Death Eater look so well, Draco was certain everyone would have cast him off as merely frightened. But they didn't, and now Severus Snape was so close to the Dark Lord it was almost terrifying and consciously strange, and he had also been dubbed Draco's mentor. The Dark Lord had called Lucius an unfit father and, needless to say, his father didn't take it too well. It took quite a load of hexes, spewed curses, Dark Magic tricks, and hard liquor to calm him down. Draco had managed to heal himself fairly well that day while his father lost countless brain cells on binge drinking.

It wasn't that Draco hated his father, no; he loved his father as a son should. You and I should never doubt that. Nevertheless, he thought it was a rather fair deal. (You ought to know a fair lot of mischievous boys that live for a sad type of happiness that involves bringing down others - that is the sort Draco Malfoy is. I think it was in his blood.) Anything to shorten Lucius' lifespan was surely worth anything to him. He was always trying to get the old man to die, always offering him more and more alcohol so he could get liver poison or some sort of medical mishap - subtly, of course, which was the only way to go about it. The routine was to seem sincere, but really get him that step closer to an absolute death. However, Lucius almost seemed unassailably invincible sometimes. Draco's own life was obscured by his shadow, while Lucius, when standing beside the Dark Lord, appeared as little as Draco felt by his father. Watching his father cower on his knees before a cloaked, ugly being made him realize just how truly barmy they all were. The Death Eaters. Why, they could have all killed the Dark Lord by now if they'd worked together!

Yes, how did the Dark Lord keep them in line? Draco pondered upon this for many nights and was clever enough to know considering the thought was inevitable. Unless... unless that was what they were planning now. That couldn't be what they were planning now, could it?

Draco sat up. The boy's dormitory was dark, a sliver of moonlight from a nearby window cutting a milky and glowing scar on the cold floor. He stared hard at it, trying to concentrate on what he'd just heard. Something like rustling... indistinct and muffled, intentionally quiet. Then whispering. He could have sworn he'd heard whispering. But it was faint, nearly silent but intensely foreboding, and instant menacing chills rocketed up and down his body at the sound.

He was not a coward - he'd gotten past that stage, which was natural for many children. Although, I should not call him a child. If the young Malfoy heard me telling this story he would call me absolutely blasphemous. But that was the beauty of it. Though any person would deny it with ferocious firmness, every single being was still a child in some way in their subconscious. He did not know this as a fact, but simply as one of those lazy thoughts that drifted along in your head when you are asleep.

Cautiously his head slowly turned to observe his housemates. For a moment everything had dulled into hard meditation, blocking out the heavy breathing fogging up the frosted windows. But as the cold feeling passed, as it always does, the customary noises of Slytherin dormitory resumed: sleep-induced mumbles, thunderous snores, and a faint questionable grunting that Draco could only assume was propelled by a sexually oriented dream.

He shivered. As much as he wanted to hear the releasing end of the exciting sleep-shagging, he quietly pushed off his covers and stepped out of his bed, grabbing his cloak. He'd never ventured out of his dormitory in only his pajamas before, for his taste in nightclothes was his business and his business alone, but he reassured himself that he was just going to have a good look around before coming right back. It was highly unlikely anyone else would be out this late at night, but he knew Filch and the professors made nightly rounds to make sure, so he mumbled a concealment charm to protect himself from their nosy intentions and detention-distributing wrath. He quickly and blindly put on his shoes. Giving one last good look at his fellow sleeping Slytherins - the only deserving ambitious, mouth breathing, sex-dreaming prats in the whole of Hogwarts, in his right opinion - and making certain every eyelid was shut, he walked out.

Born full of stealth, he silently crossed the Slytherin common room where he discovered a seventh year and his girlfriend, stark naked right on the couches. Draco diverted his eyes from the unpleasing sight and hastened his pace, feeling uncomfortable and mildly disgusted as a boy should, almost running out of the portrait hole.

Dimness was a thing to behold in the corridors. The torches were only softly lit, the flames barely even there. Draco kept his wand at his side, alarmed and wary to his surroundings, as he wandered out of Slytherin Tower. Anyone could tell you that any tower at Hogwarts castle would be somewhat menacing in the dead of the night, even the happiest, like Gryffindor Tower, for it was at nighttime that every light was weakened and all of the shadows grew much too big for their corners. This did not alarm him too much for he knew a thing or two about darkness, but you must understand his apprehensiveness for even the bravest man in the world fears the dark at least once.

He encountered the infamous Argus Filch while walking past the Great Hall. The begrudging caretaker was limping rather fast (faster than Draco had ever seen, which was quite scary) down the hall as if he had a giant poker prodding his bum. Draco quickly stepped aside as he watched him with amused, glittering silver eyes, hearing him mutter gritty curse words under his breath that he could only guess was not from their generation. Draco's pale brows drew up in mild surprise as he heard loud meowing, distorted and wailing in distress, and noticed the furry bulk in his arms. He was carrying Mrs. Norris.

"Shush, shush, my dear," Filch gently mumbled to his cat. "We'll get you to the hospital wing soon enough. Poppy knows all about your allergy and she'll fix you right up. Damn that Peeves... making you eat that spider... he knows you're bloody allergic... I swear, I'm going to lock him up real good once I get my hands on him..."

Draco silently chuckled as Filch limped away, still whispering reassurances to his cat. He then concluded that was another activity to add to his list of Things To Do Before Leaving Hogwarts. Make Mrs. Norris eat, not one, but a dozen spiders. And maybe, if he was lucky, he'd get Weasley too, who was just about as paranoid about spiders as a lunatic. It was about time Draco considered his arachnophobia to his malicious advantage.

After his simple and impish contemplation, he resumed his night stroll. He began to tense up again, feeling his shoulders stiffen and his spine jerk uncomfortably straight, when he felt the presence of a draft. Though he was quite accustomed to cold things, being birthed a naturally frigid person; something about it caused the prickling white hairs on his skin to rise. His pace began to quicken, a soft silhouette following him on the shadow-eaten walls, the newly polished marble glistening beneath his feet like water. There were splashes and streaks of lackluster orange and gold from the reflection of the weak torches, painting a runny abstract all across the floors.

Then, as he was about two paces from the library doors, he heard a noise. A drawn-out creak of a door, almost unrecognizable. Draco could tell that the culprit was trying to be as discreet and quiet as possible. At that thought, a siren sounded off in his head. He speedily neared the doors, his shoes noiselessly whipping against the marble, and halted just in time to catch the perpetrator trying to carefully close the door as idiotically slowly as one could.

I couldn't tell you whether he had actually been expecting to catch a foe; in my opinion, everyone does have that secret hope in that circumstance, but also that they wouldn't be forced to confront some terrible villain. Perhaps he was thinking the same thing, feeling fear but determination and even already imagining victory and glory, but he did not approach with immediate violence.

Instead he watched with accusing eyes, his nerves warring and alive, his senses haywire with the sense of urgency and secrecy. But as he took in the sight of the individual, anxiously observing the messy updo of uncontainable brown curls, the pink cotton of her pajamas and woolly, thick jumper, he was struck with an overwhelming familiarity. His heart pounding in his chest from anticipation and slight shock, he watched as she finally closed the library door with a resounding click, making her noticeably flinch.

His eyes landed on the leather strap she had rested on her shoulder. She had brought along her satchel, although he knew just from the looks of it that it was not books she had hastily stashed inside. It seemed full of something, almost bursting, bulky and packed with some unknown substance. Curiosity pricked him on the thumb, then, or perhaps in his heart - for even a boy of sixteen years felt such things.

Realization dawned on him as he finally noticed the fading, worn letters on the side. It was in undersized, old print and almost rubbed away, adding to the already tatty appearance of the bag. HG. The initials HG, in thin gold lettering. Hermione Granger.

Hermione Granger!

A tremendous wave of suspicion tackled him then, like a looming surf, pushing his thoughts out of its neat proportions. Questions began to chant inside his head like a feverish crowd. What was Hermione Granger doing sneaking out of the library at two in the morning - with a book bag filled with something that certainly weren't books of any variety at all? What had she stolen? Ingredients for another potion? Why was she even in the library at this ungodly hour? What could she possibly be looking up that she didn't want anyone to see, even Madam Pince?

Without thinking, before she could magically lock the library doors again, Draco had wrenched her hand off of the handle, opened the door, and had shoved her in, muffling her scream of surprise and terror by firmly and quickly shutting the door behind him.

I feel mildly foolish to say that it was dark in the library, for of course it was - otherwise the tension wouldn't be as great. Draco received a foreign feeling of new grounds - a metaphor or not, he hadn't a clue. Maybe it was because he'd never been in the library in complete darkness. Or maybe it was because he'd never been in the library in complete darkness with Hermione Granger, now a suspect, whom he knew he had scared the living hell out of. Now, boys and girls, it would be an understatement to reveal to you that he really was every bit as shocked as I tell you. She was perhaps the last person he expected to find.

But before he could reveal himself to assure her that he was not some Death Eater wanting to snatch her away for Mudblood servitude or anything like that, she had proved her Gryffindor worth and subdued her fright, whipped out her wand, whispered an anti-concealment charm then a bright Lumos, and was now pointing the rather narrow and pointy tip of her wand right at the flesh of his white neck. Which, he wisely presumed, was so pale it was glowing ethereally.

His body stiffened, his muscles contracting as he sucked in a shocked breath, taking a good look at her narrowed and enraged brown eyes. Her face was almost as colorless as his, shining wholesomely from the light. She looked frightened straight off her rocker, but she had just pulled the single bravest move Draco had ever seen from her. And as the seconds ticked by, comprehension of their identities descended upon them and Draco's amazed, slightly terrified expression easily descended into an automatic sneer of malice and hate. His eyes thinned, shining with spite and mistrust.

Hermione Granger, standing right about a few inches below him, did not waver, even when she recognized him, for she was one of those few girls who did not seem to be a girl at all when it came to these things. Instead she tensed, as if ready for battle (which he reckoned she was, what with her warrior face on and everything). We can only imagine the laughable image of him in his pajamas, shiny dragonleather shoes, and an expensive black cloak. But it seemed that she did not notice his silly attire or simply just hid her amusement very well. She stood her ground, her eyes shining like beetles, but took a shaky breath, looking up at his face with proverbial, sheer dislike.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Malfoy?" she hissed much like a lady should never, shuddering with rage. A few frizzy tendrils had eluded her hurriedly composed bun, hovering right alongside her cheek and dainty jaw line. It touched her cheek gently, almost like a kiss, as if a reminder cooing: 'Do play nice, Hermione Granger, it's so late in the evening.'

"I should be asking you the same question," he snarled back. His chest was wound tight, his fists clenching. "What are you doing at the sodding library at two in the morning? What are you up to? And," he said, hitting away her outstretched arm, "point that bloody thing somewhere else."

She refused and swung it right back at him again, brushing that bothersome curl aside. "You can't just go shoving people in libraries, you know!" she fumed, very angry. "I could have had a heart attack!"

"Yes, and that would be real unfortunate," Draco snapped. Now, since you already know that Draco is a vile boy, very snake-like in his ways even sometimes in the flicker of his tongue, you will not be surprised by what he said right after: "I can almost see it now: 'Annoying Mudblood Dies From Heart Attack. Whole World Rejoices.' "

She only ignored him, showing utmost good form, her face viciously scrawled with animosity. She was breathing hard, and Draco understood the feeling very well despite their vast differences. His heart rate had not calmed back into its normal pace and was bashing painfully against his chest. "What are you even doing here? Slytherin Tower is--"

"I'm not the suspicious character here, Granger," he sharply interrupted. He had to blink a fair amount of times to get used to their atmosphere. Their two bodies were lit from her Lumos, but everything else was shrouded with inky darkness. He did not feel so comfortable standing so close to her in this darkness and wished that he knew the spell for the lights. "What did you steal? What did you take from Snape? More items for another Polyjuice potion, I presume?" he spat.

He was always assuming, which was another one of his great faults, along with being entirely bigoted and conceited. Sometimes he did come upon good chance and was right, but that was rarely ever, and, like now, he was wrong. You will see that.

Along with being angry, Granger now looked incredulous. Her brunette brows crept up her forehead with a foreboding sense of danger. "And now you're accusing me of stealing? You really are a character, Malfoy," she retaliated spitefully. (And she was quite right.) "I mean, who else would be dim-witted enough to accuse me when you're the one lurking around the castle with a concealment charm?"

"What's in your bag?" he growled. "Show it to me."

"No."

"Granger, show me what you stole."

"I told you I didn't steal anything!"

"All right then, if you won't tell me that," Draco gritted out through his teeth. "What did you hear? Was it Potter? Has he been walking around talking to snakes again?"

She gripped her wand tightly, still pointing the light at his face. Draco's eyes were beginning to burn from the bright glow, noticing that now it was flaring even brighter. "What are you talking about? What do you want with Harry?" Her voice sounded terse, teetering on the edge of her temper. Take notice that she was very protective of Harry, just like all good friends should be. "What are you up to, Malfoy?"

Now, the reality was, neither of them were really up to anything. They had just gotten their paths crossed, but it was like mixing two very disagreeable liquids together: it ended up exploding into something unnecessarily messy. They were merely feeding off of the information they had in their heads about each other, and their instincts, which more often than not is formed by conclusions. The more Draco shouted, the more Hermione shouted. It was like a game, except for the fact that it was not very fun.

"I asked you first. Just answer the bloody question. What happened? What are you doing here?" he hissed.

"What else? Reading," she angrily answered back. Reading was the thing she liked doing best.

"Liar," he instantly accused, his tone sharp. "Not even you, Hermione Granger, would go to the sodding library at two in the morning in your pajamas. Now tell me, what you were doing?"

"I don't have to answer to you," she harshly bickered. "Now get out of my way, you vile swine, before I hex you into oblivion."

And she was perfectly capable of doing so, mind you, but remember the size of his head? It was far too big to actually consider the probability.

"What, and ruin your perfect reputation?" he snorted loudly, making her flinch. "I wouldn't bet on it, Granger. Your entire life depends on that perfect image. You're nothing without it," he said haughtily. "Just like Harry Potter without his scar, and your mate Weasel, without his shanty home and poverty."

"And look how they're still whipping your arse in Quidditch!" Hermione retorted. "That must be a whole new low for you, Malfoy."

His eyes narrowed in impatience and irritation, then, lightning quick his hand darted out and she looked down, startled, as he tightly gripped the strap of her bag and gave a fierce tug.

Hermione tried to pull it back to her, only succeeding by a few inches, with her face quickly descending into a heated glower. "Let go," she commanded.

He pulled even harder, causing it to jerk off of her shoulder. "No."

She tried to yank it back, her arm trembling unsteadily, her wand wobbling. Her Lumos light was weakening ever so slowly, bobbing up and down in the air, from her distracted energy.

He only responded with more force. He stubbornly pulled again, this time gripping onto the satchel itself.

"Let go," she whispered harshly, tugging on it, trying to pull the handle with only one hand. "You annoying prick! Let go!"

"You let go," he retaliated. "If you were really out here reading and doing something completely innocent, then you wouldn't have anything to hide, now, would you?" He pulled harder, causing her body to suddenly jerk his way, hearing her clumsy footsteps as she attempted to regain her stubbornly opposing position.

She yanked harder. "There's no way I'm letting you look inside this bag!" she furiously said to him. "Mind - your - own - business!" she heavily annunciated, giving a tug for every word.

He yanked it back, which then resulted into her shouting: "Fifty points from Slytherin!"

"Stupid Mudblood!" he snarled through his teeth. He couldn't figure out for the life of him how on earth had she gotten so strong, and even I cannot tell you for sure, just the fact that books do weigh a lot sometimes. "You can't take points away from Slytherin just because I'm clever enough to know you have something stolen in your bag! That's a prefect bylaw, you half-witted bint!" He was pulling hard and he felt her slightly give way, but she then strengthened her hold, causing him to grit his teeth.

"I don't care!" cried Hermione, her face pinched from the struggle. She certainly was struggling, that poor, poor girl. If this were a perfect story she would win and prove Draco Malfoy wrong, and therefore humiliate him just to shrink his head down a little enough for his face to color. For it was a bit on the unfair side, since he was a Quidditch player and also a boy, which I do not have to explain any further because I have a good feeling you already know. How could a girl, even a girl who carried around tomes in her arms all day, compete with hours of rigorous labor and natural structure? Even I cannot answer such a question. "One hundred points from Sly--"

"Just show me what's in your sodding bag!" said Draco.

"No! It's none of your business! I didn't steal anything!"

"And I'm supposed to believe you?" he asked incredulously, yet forcefully, trying to tug the bag his way. "Tough chance, Granger!"

And it was a very tough chance indeed. Perhaps it would be surprising for you to know that there was probably a very tiny voice inside his head, in the dankest and darkest corner where even the foulest things could not live, that told him that she really hadn't stolen anything. But how could a mere voice, a mousy voice, even try to obliterate the fact that Hermione Granger had been trying to sneak out of the library with a bag full of odd things? Even if Draco did not hate her for a reason completely and ridiculously superior, I am afraid to say that the cards would have still fallen in the same place.

I'm supposing you know already what should happen when two people keep tugging on a material thing (I am only repeating what your mother told you once before: those don't last very long), and so I will not drag it out too long, but I will try to add it with a flourish, for it is a moment in which you will see the sheer and utter vulnerability and shock flicker across the two characters' faces for but a second. With a great Rrrrrrip! the satchel's handle was torn by brutal force, its dainty stitching fraying now like magnetized shreds, and Draco, who was holding the satchel, was flung across the room, falling to the floor with a painful grunt. Hermione, who had been tugging on the strap, flew backwards with the strap still intact in her hand, her palm now angrily streaked with marks of forcefulness, letting out a very high-pitched squeal as she landed on her bum on the library floor, as well.

And then something frightening happened.

The light blew out.

You remember how it was once before to be stuck in darkness, unknowing of your boundaries and what else was lurking out there? Hermione and Draco were not as much as afraid of all of the hidden dangers of a cloaked room, but blinked madly, rubbing their eyes, clouded by confusion and thinking that they had gone blind. And then Draco, who was sensible for once, had somehow found his wand and whispered Lumos, conjuring a new light that relieved them. Not so much, though, for Hermione was still looking at him with so much hate and venom that it seems impossible to think about now, so much vengeful fire inside a girl.

He was still clutching her satchel tightly against his chest, and their gazes locked so electrically that he could not look away for a while. Perhaps it was shock, or he had hit his head, or the fact that his spine was tingling from the impact of the fall. But even the haughty pig of a boy registered the look on her face, and for a split-second - just a split-second - considered giving her the benefit of a doubt and throwing her bag back to her, not wanting to be bothered with her brouhaha anymore because he found her annoying and too complicated to deal with. But he didn't, because he was malicious like all of the other men in his family, and smirked at her the only way a wicked person would, before opening her satchel with a taunting expression.

There came a hiss.

"Don't you dare."

Oh, and don't you hold your breath now, for that was exactly what Draco wanted to tell her. The next second, proving that he did, he plunged his hand into her bag, feeling a strange feeling in his stomach of exhilaration yet a fear of what he would find. He was so thrilled at the idea of catching her in a wrong that it made his nerves hum and the hair on the back of his neck rise. All he could think about was the look of shame imprinted on her face, like a scarlet letter, and how he could humiliate her in every possible way, along with her friends. I told you he was a nasty boy. Sometimes he even dreamt of manipulation, a glorious, sweet manipulation, and he cackled in his sleep like a madman.

But what he grabbed inside shocked him. Truly shocked him. Shocked him so much that he couldn't even comprehend it at first, for - who could? One minute he was grinning so evilly, and the next, he was holding up -

Scarves?

And, yes, indeed they were. Nicely made, knitted scarves, if not a bit fumbled with on the sides (the clear mark of a beginner), made of warm fiber. He looked at them with horror, holding up the striped strip of yarn, as if somebody had played a very dirty trick on him. He looked at the edge, seeing that there was a word there. It only had four letters on it, bold and proud.

"What in Merlin's--?" he asked, but he could not finish, for there are just certain moments in your life when it makes no sense to end a question. Everyone already knows how it ends. "Scarves? S.P.E.W. scarves? You were knitting?"

And he was even a little angry, that devilish boy, because this wasn't humiliating or the least bit incriminating at all. This was no dirt, not even a speck. The fact that Hermione Granger was knitting scarves for her pathetic little club wasn't something he could make use of. However, it was obvious that Hermione Granger felt quite differently as she flushed a bright red, the sort that is the same hue of sirens, and looked so furious that she might have gored him had she had horns.

"But why are you even knitting in the library?" he asked her, looking at her as if she was mental. He asked the question but he didn't really want to know the answer; it was the sort of thing to do in situations like this, asking questions that would surely grate the other's nerves for no particular reason. As a boy he found no use in knitting and had never even spared a thought on it before now, but even then he looked down on it through his nose.

"It's none of your business!" shrieked Hermione (who was quite right), who then lunged at him, gripping her satchel and snatching away her unfinished scarf. It would have been due of her had she taken her little fist and given him a good one on the face, and even we should look away innocently and act as if we had seen nothing wrong as to not let her become ashamed by such a great thing but her fist did not so much as kiss his cheek, let alone strike it. She stuffed her things, including the broken leather strap, furiously into her bag, as if trying to hide it. Now I don't know for sure why she was embarrassed, but perhaps it just had something to do with the fact that now she was going to be living in eternal torment, knowing that Draco Malfoy had found out about her knitting S.P.E.W. (which he absolutely mocked at every available opportunity) scarves in the library in the late evenings. It was a queer thing to do, indeed, but she never liked knitting in the common room for people came and went as they pleased.

She feared they would think it was an old womanly thing to do, and she was most certainly not an old lady. It was the only way she could think to support her club and she'd gotten rather good.

After doing so, Draco still sat where he was watching her with a bemused expression on his pale face. Hermione looked around for her wand, conveniently finding it within the area that his light reached. She did not bother to wipe it off or inspect it for any nicks, for immediately she lit a light of her own again, brighter than Draco's, and Draco sneered.

She had long forgotten the strangeness of his presence, lurking around after hours, and the possible trouble that he could have caused in the dead of the night while others slept peacefully in their beds, dreaming of golden Snitches and chocolate pudding. She glared at him with a viciousness that would have scared a rat right back into its dingy hole, instead thinking that she had to get away from him as fast as she could for fear of doing something she would regret later on. His face wasn't the last thing she wanted to see before sleeping; it was something to be feared. And if you listen here real closely, very closely, you may hear her mutter that it was probably what caused people to die in their sleep, seeing his face floating around in their dreams.

And then, just to spite her because he was a mean old brute, he told her that she was a terrible knitter; that Crabbe could do an even better job than her, and remember what I told you about Crabbe. And what was worse was that boys know almost nothing about knitting. He must've been awful.

"Oh, I hope you die!" she found herself saying through her teeth, and she quite meant it, too, although mothers and fathers would usually throw a fit if they ever heard such a thing coming out of their child's mouth. There's a peal of guilt that always throbs later on, like a blister, because people were not meant to say such mean things and for a person like Hermione Granger who had never said such a thing in her life, it would certainly eat her up. But none of us can say he did not deserve it.

Thank goodness, she walked out before he could spit out another insult that would secretly hurt her confidence in her knitting or skill in anything else. We hear her as she stomps down the corridor quietly, her face twisted into an unpleasant frown, and do you feel that sad feeling in your heart, right there? That is what one feels when one sees the better half of the world, the good half, walking away wounded - though there is no telling who won tonight. Not Draco, to be sure. Perhaps the scarves did.

Draco followed soon after, dusting himself off and muttering to himself all of these begrudging, terrible things. We cannot say that this encounter did much for him tonight - but you shall see that even the simplest of things can turn out to be the greatest adventure of one's life. And Draco Malfoy, standing on the sidelines and scorning Harry Potter, had always longed in one form or another to have an adventure of his own. It was not the fame he sought, or the prizes in the end, but the exhilaration and importance it would give him. But no one shall ever know it, not even in the end, for selfish masters with pride never say anything that reveals their vulnerabilities.

He returned to his room silently and slipped back into his covers, the great smile of the moon obscured by a passing cloud.

And I will tell you now that he dreamt a very strange dream that night, of being swallowed up by a vast ocean of yarn, and becoming hopelessly entangled, and it was a very queer dream indeed. But he shall never know it, for like most dreams, he woke up and did not remember a single thing of it in the morning.