Contradictus Totalus

Contradictus Totalus - Chapter 3

Draco Malfoy's morning was not going very well. He was already feeling like he wanted to go back to bed, for he felt not rested at all. Yet, when he had woken up, he could not fall back asleep either. After trying for quite a long time, he had resignedly given up and decided to go to breakfast.

It was only a bit after six when he arrived at the breakfast table. The Great Hall was deserted, and Malfoy felt a rush of envy towards all of those other students who were still sleeping soundly in their beds, who would wake up feeling refreshed and ready to take on an Acromantula. He would never admit this to anyone, and he even had a hard time admitting it to himself, but Malfoy felt like he could not even wrestle a Flobberworm to a draw at this moment.

Malfoy did not particularly wish for the other students to see him looking just as sour as Snape (but without the greasy hair). He had an image as a Malfoy to uphold, and looking like ten kinds of shit was not the way to do it. He felt quite lucky indeed that the hall was deserted.

As if to spite him, the door of the Great Hall opened, and in walked Hermione Granger, of all people. Her eyes were fixed on the pages of a very thick-looking book. She somehow managed to navigate her way to the other end of the hall even with her eyes occupied. Perhaps she had an extra pair of them located on her feet?

Malfoy gazed at her surreptitiously with his hair hanging in front of his eyes as she sat down at the Gryffindor table. He watched as she reached for a bowl of fruit, without breaking her gaze from her book for even one moment. Evidently she had more eyes attached to her fingers as well.

Malfoy was a bit less bothered by the whole Hogwarts Express Incident than he had been the day before, in that he no longer winced when he brought up that memory of his ungainliness. And besides, the information she was currently soaking up from her book would surely drive out that obviously unimportant memory of his bumbling ineptitude, his weak retorts.

Feeling a bit more cheery, he reached for a croissant, while still studying the almost motionless form of Granger. Unfortunately, he misjudged the distance (obviously due to lack of sleep), missed the plate of pastries, and instead grabbed a handful of soft butter. His grip was so strong that it squelched up between his fingers, covering his knuckles and getting caught under his fingernails. It felt warm and greasy in his hand. He could smell it as well -creamy and delicious - but he paid no attention to it.

He stared at his be-buttered hand, all coherent thoughts driven out of his brain. 'Fuck!' His curse echoed in the hall. It was good that none of the teachers were early risers. If McGonagall had been present, then Slytherin would be in the red zone for House Points in two seconds flat.

But wait! There was someone there, someone even worse than Professor McGonagall. She had been so silent that he had almost forgotten she was present. It was that damn Hermione Granger, and Malfoy was certain she would no longer be absorbed in her book.

He quickly looked at Granger. Her book was laid open next to her bowl of cereal and fruit. Her eyes were not focused on the book however, but on him. He wondered briefly if she could see the gooey butter caked on his hand (which was currently rolling down his wrist aiming for the sleeve of his robe). He hoped the distance between the Slytherin and the Gryffindor tables would keep her from recognizing his situation.

He searched for serviettes. Oh, bloody hell! There were none - bloody lazy House Elves! Malfoy didn't feel at all comfortable saying a Cleaning Spell in front of Granger, because she'd probably hear it in this stifling silence, recognize it easily, and then guess why he needed it. And Malfoy would be damned if Granger found out that he had grabbed a fistful of butter, no matter how bloody tired he was. Malfoys did not do such inane things like seizing a sodding dish full of butter when aiming for a plate of croissants.

He'd just sit here and wait for her to return to her book, which surely was more intriguing to her than he was. He moved his hand to his head, running his fingers through his hair, pushing the locks back up, for they had fallen in front of his face. All right, so now he would go and - oh fuck! He had smeared the butter through his hair! Now his hair was repellently greasy, as was part of his forehead. He quickly withdrew his hand and tried stifling his noise of disgust.

Was Granger still looking? She should have resumed reading by now. He stood up quickly. A few droplets of butter from his hand sprayed his robes. He spun around. He strode towards the door in as much of a cool and collected a manner as he could under the circumstances. (Was Granger still looking?)

But wait! He had almost left his wand back at the table! He pivoted quickly. (Was Granger still looking?) He headed quickly back towards the Slytherin table, spying his much-needed little sliver of wood. He made to grab it with his right hand. No! Stopped. Mr. Ollivander would get an aneurysm if he learned that such dirty fingers had besmirched an Ollivander wand.

Malfoy reached for the wand with his left hand. (Was Granger still looking?) As soon as he got the wand, all he needed to do was to simply leave the Great Hall and perform a quick - bloody hell! Malfoy had snatched at the wand too hastily, and it rolled towards the edge of the wooden table. He quickly caught it, however, in between his pinky and ring finger. Ha! How was that for - fuck! The wand had fallen from its precarious position. His Quidditch instincts kicked in yet again, and he caught it another time. However, it was with his right hand. The one soaked by butter. The wand slipped from his slippery grasp and fell to the floor, bouncing several times more than he thought could be possible. The gods of humiliation were mocking him, it seemed.

The clatter, which normally would not have been heard above the gnashing teeth of Goyle at mealtimes, sounded absolutely deafening. Well, that little sliver of hope that he had held all too briefly was now completely lost. The thundering clatter had assured him of that fact. If Granger hadn't been looking at him ... well, she was now.

Well, it was just about over now. Both his hands were liberally covered by butter. His wand looked like it had been rolled in an entire vat of melted butter. His hair had the same texture and consistency of Professor Snape's. But worst of all, Granger had witnessed yet another stupid, embarrassing accident, and right when he had almost forgotten about the one that happened not 24 hours ago!

His day was not looking at all bright. He headed towards the doors of the Great Hall for the second time. He tried twisting the doorknob, but to no avail. He couldn't get the damn thing to turn! He kicked open the doors angrily instead, jarring his leg slightly but not caring in the least. He headed straight for the dungeons to get cleaned up. The bloody croissant that started this whole bloody debacle lay untouched on the bloody table.

* * * * *

Hermione blinked. To say that what she had just witnessed was strange would be the grandest understatement to ever be uttered within the hallowed halls of Hogwarts.

She could see, even from the large gap separating the Slytherins and Gryffindors, that something had been bothering Malfoy, to say the least. It had seemed that he had a huge problem to clean up, and certainly did not seem comfortable with it at all, especially with her looking over at him - which she could not resist doing, for an event such as this was too rare to not watch. Yes, she could see that he had been feeling quite ill at ease and insecure with her observing this minor imperfection in his usual act of coolness and aloofness.

He had in that moment of unease looked different than what she remembered seeing him as on the train. Seeing him struggle with whatever was bothering him made him seem less like a statue and more like a ... well, like a human.

Oh, well, for whatever reason Malfoy had been acting so flustered - perhaps he had developed an acute case of schizophrenia over the summer? Or else he had spotted an Acromantula lurking behind the high table? - it surely was not more interesting than Can Muggles and Magic Mix?. She went back to her book, deciding not to mention what she had seen to Harry and Ron, who would only poke fun at Malfoy and lose House Points when they would inevitably be caught.

Several hours later, or perhaps it was merely a few minutes - time simply seems to fly by when one is deeply engrossed in a good book - Ron and Harry came down to breakfast.

Harry was in a rather good mood. He had slept well, and was looking forward to the Survival Defence Against the Dark Arts class - hoping with all his might that a certain person would be attending the class with him (never mind that she was only a fifth-year; what had Luna written in her letter to him? Hope springs eternal?).

Ron, on the other hand, threw himself down next to Hermione, looking like he had been up all night scrubbing bedpans or doing some other tedious, time-consuming exercise, as opposed to getting a good night's sleep. In a sour voice, he asked Hermione exasperatedly, 'Why in the name of arse did you come down here so early?'

She bit back a response that would only draw them in yet another heated argument, remembering that he had sacrificed his dignity and had sprouted a tail for her last night. She instead shoved a plate of scrambled eggs over to him. Ron seemed to inhale them. After a few minutes, he set down his fork and gave a huge sigh.

'Are you in a better mood now?' Hermione asked with the air of one trying to reason with a particularly unreasonable child in the midst of a tantrum.

Ron nodded sheepishly. To his defence, his first night back at Hogwarts had been far from restful, all because of 'that bloody tail!' It had lingered on for a much, much longer period of time than Neville's had. Ron had been extremely put out when he had discovered that Neville's tail had shlooped back into his bottom only a few minutes after he went to bed. Unfortunately for Ron, his own tail had not disappeared until a short while after sunrise, so he had spent the whole night in its company, attempting to sleep with it curled under him, feeling like he was lying in a bed of snakes.

But it was no matter now, as Hermione told Ron. The tail was gone, leaving behind only a rather large hole in Ron's robes, and that could be mended by a quick charm. Besides, it was the start of a whole new school year with a new class, which sounded extremely interesting even with the scant amount of details provided.

'I suppose so,' Ron assented. He cheered up a bit. 'And I reckon this'll be one class that none of us will be rubbish at!'

His low spirits now raised, he reached for a plate of kippers. Hermione, who had long since finished her breakfast, rolled her eyes. Harry pushed away his still half-full bowl of porridge upon seeing Ron feasting. Ron noted his friends' reactions and said defensively, through a mouthful of fish, 'I'm a gwowing boy, ahwight?'

Hermione couldn't help but smile, even as she sighed in exasperation. 'Come on! The bell should be ringing soon. And I really don't wish to be late for our first special DADA class just because you were too busy stuffing your mouth.'

As if to emphasize her point, the clang of the bell could be heard reverberating throughout the hall. Harry stood up quickly, almost as eager as Hermione to head off. Hermione heaved Ron to his feet and dragged him away from the table. He eyed the last few bits of his breakfast longingly, but allowed himself to be towed away to the Gryffindors' first class of the year.

* * * * *

At the Slytherin table, Draco Malfoy sat glowering, his eyes sending daggers towards the Gryffindor table. More specifically, at Granger. Granger, who did not seem to notice his piercing gaze. Granger, who looked so carefree and happy, even though she had just caught him in (yet again!) a horribly humiliating situation. She had caught him looking clumsy, weak, and perhaps worst of all, totally out of control. She did not have the right to act so normal after spying his moments of weakness. How was she allowed to just sit there, with the knowledge that she had seen what nobody else had ever seen: a Malfoy not in control of himself? How could she look be allowed to look so carefree, after seeing him like that? There she was, laughing with Weasley (Was she laughing at him perhaps? Had she decided to share what she had witnessed?), not knowing that here, at the other end of the hall, Draco Malfoy was wishing that she did not exist. He kept his cutting gaze on her. A sort of incomprehensible anger burned inside him ...

Malfoy sighed. He had come back down to breakfast but was not feeling hungry at all. He had lost whatever appetite he had after the Butter Incident. Before he could get a chance to reach for food anyway, the bell rang, signalling the end of breakfast. He stood up and headed off quickly to his first class. Crabbe and Goyle looked at each other, and then got up as well to follow Malfoy as all the students exited the Great Hall.

* * * * *

Hermione, Harry, and Ron walked at a leisurely pace to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom despite Hermione's urgings to go faster. All the while they talked about what they thought would happen there, who they would be sharing the class with, and what they would learn.

They turned into a very narrow hallway and soon neared the entrance of the classroom. They were about to walk in when Hermione felt someone brush up past her, heading towards the direction of the doorway. In the name of common courtesy, Hermione stepped to the side of the hall, to let this wizard, who was obviously in a hurry, pass by first.

He passed by her, black robes sweeping behind him. Then Hermione saw the hair. Malfoy. The Slytherins would be the ones to share the lessons with the Gryffindors. Hermione turned around quickly towards her friends. One look at their faces showed that neither of them had realized with whom they would be sharing their class.

Hermione opened her mouth but before words came out, a drawling voice said venomously, 'Ah, my thanks to you Granger. It's about time Gryffindors and Mudbloods have learned their place and allowed their betters to pass them.' Malfoy was leaning against the doorjamb, looking at her with more malice and loathing than she had ever seen on his face.

Hermione's eyes narrowed. It figured that only Malfoy - disgusting, spoiled, sheltered, Malfoy - could say something so crude. People were being tortured, raped, and murdered because of that mentality. Malfoy's father was in jail because he'd acted on those thoughts. And Malfoy himself dared to say rubbish like that?

Before she could say anything, Ron stepped out from behind her, making an abrupt movement towards Malfoy. 'Fuck off, Malfoy, or else - '

Hermione threw her arm out, holding Ron back. Before Ron could protest, she turned to face the Slytherin. She tried to keep her voice even, tried to sound as if she hadn't been bothered at all by his cruel callousness. 'I'm finding your jibes to be getting rather tedious and repetitive. Just bugger off now, Malfoy.'

One look at the glitter in his eyes told her he had no intention of doing what she had ever so courteously requested. However, before he could hiss out another vile insult, she continued, steely-eyed, 'On a totally unrelated subject, I've been practising Temporary Human to Beast Transformation Spells. Now hypothetically, if you had to choose a creature to be Temporarily Transformed into, would you prefer being turned into a slimy, spineless annelid or else a ferret, just for old time's sake?'

This time, the wizard she was looking at did not even remotely resemble the unguarded wizard she saw that morning in the Great Hall. She looked at Malfoy, and saw an ignorant, immature, malicious little man. Looking deeper, she saw five years' worth of her friends' torment.

Hermione stared at Malfoy, and Malfoy stared right back at her. The mitral valves in both their hearts opened, allowing blood to enter. Lub. Hermione's eyes widened. Malfoy's eyebrow began to rise an infinitesimally small distance. Ron's fists began to clench. His tongue began to move into the right position for him to articulate his demand to Malfoy to just fuck off. A fly on the wall in the corridor beat its wings at a rate of two hundred strokes a second.

All background sounds faded away to nothing. It was as if both Hermione and Malfoy were standing in the eye of a hurricane, although it was anything but calm. Both students seemed to hear each other's heartbeats, seemed to hear Hermione's desperately-even inhales and exhales, and the quick, shallow breaths of Malfoy standing across from her.

There was a deadly silence as cool grey eyes stared into usually warm but right now just as frigid brown ones. Hermione wanted Malfoy to see the steeliness and determination in there. She wanted him to know that she would not hesitate to fulfill the words that she spoke (although she drew the line at making him bounce up and down off the ground, for no one deserved that amount of pain and humiliation).

Hermione could see herself, looking defiant and determined, in Malfoy's stormy eyes. Their colour resembled the same shade of grey seen in rain clouds before a lightning storm. Under Malfoy's tempestuous stare, Hermione seemed to feel every single nerve in her body crackle with electricity. Her spine served as a conduit as she felt little tingles running up and down her back. But she still kept staring at Malfoy, refusing to back down. She could see a burning anger shining out of eyes. Was that the only emotion to ever be spotted in those little grey chips of granite? Simply rage? Wait! Hermione's thought she saw a flicker of something else ...

Two hundred strokes of the fly's wings later, the valves in Hermione and Malfoy's hearts closed, forcing blood out through their aortas. Dub. Hermione blinked. Malfoy's eye twitched. Ron's fists finished clenching. He growled out, 'I said, already, fuck off, Malfoy!' The bubble, that momentary calm between Malfoy and Hermione, was now broken.

Malfoy didn't particularly give a shit what that bumbling Weasley was saying, for he knew whatever it was - he wasn't quite paying attention - it would be as worthless as Weasley was himself. (Well, almost. After all, it took a lot to be even more rubbishy than a Weasley.) Besides, Malfoy had more important things to think about, like Hermione Granger.

Granger. Damn her. Damn that Granger! Malfoy had backed down, despite his inexplicable anger towards her. Despite everything in him compared to everything in her. He had brushed by her in the narrow corridor, and her proximity had somehow pushed him over the edge. He had breathed in her scent, smelling faintly of vanilla. He had taken in her vanilla-tinged, innocent, carefree, oblivious smell. And he had wanted to change that. He had wanted to hear a reaction from her. He had wanted to burn her with his stinging, ice-cold words. He had wanted to show her that he was in control. He had wanted to humiliate her the way she had humiliated him. He had wanted her to feel awkward and insecure too.

He had wanted to do all that.

But he had not. He had failed. Failed at accomplishing what he had set out to do. Granger had faced him. She had confronted him. She hadn't seemed bothered by him at all! Malfoy was not used to witches standing up to him, let alone threaten him as she had so smoothly. He'd never have expected her, the goody-goody Gryffindor, to threaten him outright.

Malfoy could not hiss more venomous words at her. It seemed that his insults had no effect on her. And he could not bring himself to hex her either, no matter how much he loathed her, despised her, right now. His inner sense of ... well, some inner sense, perhaps a conscience (?!) inside him just discouraged the idea of casting dozens of debilitating spells at her. Or no, it most certainly was not his conscience, he was simply living up to his idea of what the Malfoy honour was - Malfoys did not reduce themselves to hurling hexes pettily at witches, even annoying, defiant, know-it-all witches who never seemed to be afraid of challenging him.

A muscle in his jaw twitched. He spun around and walked brusquely into the classroom with as much dignity as possible. He felt a bit of heat rise towards his face, and took a breath to try to control this uncontrollable flush brought on by Granger. Normally, Malfoy would not have turned his back on an enemy, yet somehow he was cognisant that Granger would not attack him while his back was turned. Gryffindors were too honourable for such underhanded tactics. In fact, looking back, Malfoy supposed that perhaps his attempted curse at an unarmed, unaware Potter back in his fourth year had been a quite underhanded act, even by Slytherin standards. Malfoys possessed a bit more honour than that.

Malfoy walked into the classroom, seeing nothing, and choosing a random seat. He was still thinking about his confrontation with Granger outside the room. It was difficult enough to accept that she consistently pulled ahead of him in marks, but to have failed to beat her in yet another confrontation ... Why was he always beaten by Granger? What made him fail all the time? Malfoys always accomplished what they set out to do. But Malfoy had not. Like Lucius, he had failed. How could he bring the Malfoy name back to its respectable place in society after Lucius had lost it, when he could not even accomplish such a simple task like getting a rise out of Granger?

He exhaled, unaware that he had been holding his breath for the past few seconds while he was thinking about that Granger. He still felt that inexplicable anger bubbling inside of him, but for some reason, for the first time, he wondered if perhaps it was not truly directed at her, but at himself.