Perfection

Perfection

Chapter 9: Stepping Stones

The days passed swiftly, and Hermione wasn't quite sure what happened during them, only that there was nothing to mark each one from the other. She wasn't unhappy, but nor could she say that her state was one of bliss. She was simply there, nothing else.

Sometime during the weeks that followed, she stopped vomiting entirely, although she still ate lightly. She was afraid to not eat now, afraid of what she might do unwittingly, so she attended meals almost religiously.

There were some minor encounters with Professor Snape, but nothing more than brief comments in the corridors or after class--none of them personal. Of her mother, there was little news, only that she was fine, all the settlements should be completed for the beginning of August, she hoped that school was going well. "Settlements" she knew was referring to her, but at the idea, she couldn't seem to feel much. It would happen, whatever it was, and there was nothing she could do to change it.

And so January melted into February, and she found herself back at the full moon, wondering whether or not Snape would return this time. It was much the same as last month--she was lying in bed, eyes squeezed shut, silently trying to convince herself that it would all be all right and doing a rather poor job of it.

After hours of tossing madly, she finally got out of bed and made her way down to the common room, where embers were the only sign of the once roaring blaze, the out of the portrait hole, into the stone corridor. She glanced back and, seeing that the Fat Lady had gone, sighed at the realization that there would be turning back.

She padded through the corridors almost automatically, ducking into niches and shadows whenever she heard a sound. Each time, however, her fears proved themselves unfounded and just as she was becoming complacent, voices caused her to jump behind a statue and as they grew nearer, she felt herself begin to quiver.

"Surely, Albus, you can't keep asking this of him!"

It was Madam Pomfrey, and she was livid.

"I ask nothing of him," came Dumbledore's calm reply. "It is his decision and it is entirely outside of my rights to stop him."

"But you can't continue to let this twisted sense of duty he has to overshadow reason! It's positively ridiculous! He is more useful here and alive than out gathering information that usually is already known!"

"I can't stop the man, Poppy!" Dumbledore suddenly thundered, and Hermione flinched. Had he ever lost his temper before? "Merlin knows I've tried, but he won't listen to me. Short of forbidding him what can I do? He's been like a son to me for the last twenty years, and believe me, I don't want to lose him either."

The anger was quickly replaced with an exhaustion that was almost frightening. It made him seem so old, so very old. Hermione's heart hammered. Dumbledore was not supposed to be afraid. He was supposed to be all-knowing, never deterred. But now she knew what Harry meant whenever he said that even Dumbledore was beginning to lose hope, and she wished with everything she had that she hadn't overheard this conversation.

Their conversation faded into the distance, and slowly she emerged from her hiding place, trembling. She continued on, but now it was with less assertion. Nothing seemed simple anymore, nothing for sure. When she reached her destination, she collapsed into the chair behind his desk and rested her head in her hands to wait for whatever morning would bring.

*

When he dragged himself in, thinking of nothing but a healing potion and a load of caffeine, what he got instead was the shock of his life.

There was a dead girl in his chair. A dead Hermione Granger to be specific.

After his initial alarm had worn off and he could see her breathing, he realized that she was only sleeping, not, as he had believed, deceased.

That's what a night of fun will do to you, he thought grimly.

Absently, he shook her shoulder until she was staring at him blearily.

"Awake now," she mumbled sarcastically, referring to his continued attempts at pulling her out of sleep.

"Explain," he said emotionlessly.

"I couldn't sleep," she replied, just as blandly.

"And of course my chair is more comfortable than your bed."

"Infinitely, yes," she answered, leaning back and yawning. "You know, I'm starting to get this strange feeling of déjà vu..."

He rolled his eyes, but secretly was glad that she had not been deterred. He now felt confident adding a second name to the list of People Who Give a Damn. "And I suppose you would like something to eat."

"A piece of toast would be nice, yes. With strawberry jam if you happen to be feeling benevolent."

"As you wish," he said, shifting to the fireplace and sticking a head in.

He gave the order, and Hermione--barely--resisted the urge to give yet another house-elf lecture. He then proceeded to return to his original task--the potion.

Her eyes followed him, even after breakfast arrived, and over a cup of tea she commented, "You don't look as bad as you did last month."

"That's because," he replied coolly, "this month they had a new target."

She furrowed her brow, half wanting to know, half wishing she hadn't said anything.

"A five year old muggle-born," he continued.

She lowered her eyes and bit her lip, and he regretted his words. He had only wanted to reinforce reality, not frighten her.

"I think, sir," she said quietly, "that I owe you an apology."

"You have no reason--"

"For Christmas, when I told you I didn't need anyone looking after me. I guess I was a little... ungrateful."

He almost reeled over backwards. He had managed to forget it entirely, to tell the truth.

"Ungrateful is an understatement, Miss Granger," he replied dryly.

"I know," she said carefully. "I was wrong, and I admit it."

"Well, that certainly is a change," he commented, drawing a slight laugh from her.

"Next thing we know, you'll being doing likewise," she added.

"Now that," he said, a wolfish grin flashing across his face, "will never happen because I, unlike everyone else, am never wrong."

"We shall see," she told him, taking another sip of tea and smiling maliciously back.

He raised an eyebrow. "Wise words for one so young," he mocked.

"You're not exactly ancient history yourself," she pointed out.

It seemed to him more like, Twenty years isn't all that long. That could, of course, be the wishful thinking of a desperately lonely man.

"That would be because I'm not," he replied. "Flitwick, on the other hand, is approaching three hundred."

She giggled, looking amused in a devilish sort of way.

He lowered his voice and continued confidingly, "You can tell by his height. He's been suffering from a rare shrinking disease for the last hundred and fifty years."

She fell back shrieking with laughter. "You can't be serious! Couldn't Madam Pomfrey have done something?"

"Alas, by the time she came around," he said, shaking his head sadly, "it was too far along. She can only keep him from becoming any shorter."

"You're kidding," she said. "There's no way that's true."

"It isn't," he replied, relishing her expression. "Except for the part about his age. He's half dwarf."

"I had a feeling the truth would be slightly disappointing," she replied. "And I would like to take this opportunity to add that once again, you and I are late, and once again, I have Potions."

"How incongruous," he said.

"Yes, I thought so. Perhaps we should go."

*

Well, it should be interesting anyway, Hermione reflected as she followed him into the room, then took her seat, trying not to yawn.

"Spending quality time with the teacher again, were we?" Draco smirked, leaning across the isle.

"Oh, yeah, don't know how you guessed," she replied in a bored tone. "I mean, how else would I get passable marks? I couldn't study, could I?"

Over the last month, he had constantly attempted to cause another outburst from her, but she had distanced herself from his comments, as she had from everyone else. On occasion, she would think of him as the person who had argued so fiercely with Ginny and tried to comfort her in the wake of her mysterious anxiety attack, but it only served as a faint sort of amusement. She could see none of that in the person who constantly set out to harass her.

"Sod off, Malfoy," Ron hissed across her.

His reply was only to yawn. The redhead made a lunge for the other, but Hermione held him back.

"You heard what he said..." Ron protested.

"I felt a draft, nothing more."

"Are you commenting on the state of this class, Miss Granger?" a voice said from above her.

She winced inwardly, knowing that he wouldn't hesitate to deduct points in class.

"No, sir," she replied innocently. Then, as an afterthought, added, "Only a certain student."

He chose to ignore her last remark, for which she was grateful. She hadn't meant to say it, it had just, well, slipped out.

"Take out your books," he said, glazing over their brief conversation, "and open them to page three hundred and seventy-six. Miss Granger, speak with me after class."

*

"And a high of five below centigrade in--"

Agrippa flicked off the television once they started on the weather in Scotland and curled her hands around the steaming mug. For the first time in nearly ten years, she was taking a sick day and, despite the sore throat and throbbing headache, she felt utterly relaxed for the first time in a long while.

Over a month had passed since she had ousted Steve and the turmoil was beginning to fade from her mind. She made all of her demands via her lawyer, after stating that she had no desire to come in contact with him, but it wasn't to say that he hadn't been putting up a fight, particularly over custody of Hermione. Which was strange, considering how he'd barely said a word to her in over a year and she was nearly seventeen anyhow. Next fall she would be of age, in the wizarding world at any rate, and she would belong to no one. So she could only assume that it was in a final flash of malice that he demanded so much of her.

She could only hope that her daughter would choose more wisely than she had done.

Forcing her mind away from the dismal topic, she lifted herself off of the couch and made her way to the kitchen, to make a bowl of soup.

*

After class, Hermione approached his desk and said quietly, "You wished to see me, sir?"

He looked up. "Dumbledore has asked me to choose a student to participate in an international wizarding conference, which focuses on the education given to young wizards and witches."

"And..." she prompted.

"Would you accept the proposal?"

"Of course!"

"It will require intense extracurricular research, and I will have to assist you with the making of an extremely complex potion. We do not, after all, want Hogwarts to be outdone."

She smiled at the last remark, "I understand."

"Good. Then after supper come to the classroom and we will discuss what is to be done."

"Yes, sir."

She kept her face calm, although she really wanted to dance across the room singing Broadway. Of course, embarrassing as that would be, it would be nothing compared to the strange urge she had to hug him.

*

He found her in the library, hunched over a book, completely unaware of him. For a moment, he remained silent, reading over her shoulder.

O me, why have they not buried me deep enough?

Is it kind to have made me a grave so rough,

Me, that was never a quiet sleeper?

Maybe still I am but half dead;

Then I cannot be wholly dumb.

I will cry to the steps above my head

And somebody, surely, some kind heart will come

To bury me, bury me

Deeper, ever so little deeper.

It seemed almost too appropriate, was his thought once he had finished.

"Hello, Draco," Ginny said without looking up. "Can I help you with anything?"

Her words were slightly accented with sarcasm, as if she knew the answer.

"No," he replied cheerfully, although he felt far from it, "we all dig our own graves, and it's our problem if they aren't deep enough."

"Have I ever mentioned the fact that I loathe it when other people read over my shoulder."

"Now you have."

"Look, can you please leave me alone?" she asked, trying a stab at politeness.

"No, quite afraid that I can't. Because you know as well as I that this intolerable hatred of me is really a hidden desire."

She couldn't help but giggle. "I don't hate you, I just find you..."

"Entertaining?"

"Thoroughly annoying."

"I thought you'd say that."

Well, he'd gotten somewhere. She had raised her opinion of him from thoughtless bastard to 'thoroughly annoying,' so that was something. And she no longer hated him. Progress indeed. Almost what he had hoped in a backwards sort of way would not happen.

*

Once he had left the room, Ginny snapped the book closed and buried her face in her hands. She hated this... this... attraction... to him more than the devil himself, but it seemed impossible to fight off. The harder she tried, the more difficult her task became.

"Hey, Ginny."

She jumped so high that she would later swear her head hit the roof.

"How many times do I have to tell you not to do that, Harry?" she snapped.

"What?"

"Scare the hell out of me!"

"Oh, sorry," he said vaguely, taking the seat beside her. "Listen, do you know what's up with Hermione?"

"What do you mean?"

Well, this was certainly unexpected.

"I actually didn't notice until Lavender mentioned it, but she seems like she's walking around in a sort of trance and she hardly ever talks or smiles, even. And apparently she disappeared last night."

Ginny fought the urge to be angry and lost. "You know what," she said sharply, "don't seem so surprised that other people in the world besides you have problems. Guess what? We all do. You can't just wake up one morning, realize, hey, there's something wrong with that person, then expect to solve it. It isn't that simple."

"I never thought it was simple! Don't you think if it was simple, I would have solved them all, already?"

"There you are, being selfish again," she pointed out. "You may be 'The Boy Who Lived' but it doesn't mean you can do everything."

"So you think I'm selfish?" he challenged, eyes blazing.

"I think you're the most selfish person I have ever met!"

Their voices had gradually risen from talking to shrieking, and by the time Madam Pince returned, they were shrieking as loud as they possibly could and she couldn't fit a word in edgewise.

"I'm selfish?" he roared. "What about you?"

"All Christmas holidays, almost all I did was listen to you moan about how shitty life was! Do you think that helped anyone?"

Before she could do anything, he reached across and hit her hard enough to send her head reeling backwards.

"That is quite enough!" the librarian bellowed, louder than both of the put together. Then, more quietly, she continued, "You will both see Professor Dumbledore now," in a tone which left little room for protest.

Glaring at each other poisonously, they followed her to the headmaster's office.

"Miss Weasley," he said, once they had reached it. "Mr. Potter. I do not feel the need to express my extreme disappointment in you both, particularly in such trying times, when unity is above all else, important."

"He struck her, Albus," Madam Pince said, as he paused to look at them.

"Did he, indeed?" the man said coolly, looking over his glasses at Harry. "Why?"

"I was- I didn't- I'm sorry..."

"Apologies do not make up for rash actions. Miss Weasley, you may leave. I have something to discuss with Mr. Potter in private."

She stood to leave, and the librarian followed her out.

*

"So," Ron asked Hermione conversationally, "what's your detention?"

"I don't have one."

He nearly dropped his drumstick. "Could you repeat that because I could've sworn I just heard--"

"You heard correctly. It wasn't about that. Snape wants me to participate in some sort of international conference."

This time, he did drop the drumstick.

"Say what?"

"He wants me to go to his classroom tonight to discuss details," she continued, knowing full well that Ron had heard her.

"Well, that's as bad as detention," he said complacently, lifting the piece of chicken off of his plate and resuming eating it. "Where's Harry?"

Hermione shrugged, and finished off her salad, pointedly ignoring the chicken someone waved in her face. "If you don't mind, I'm going to go. I have some things to get ready."

She chose not to mention that those "things" happened to be her hair.

*

She entered the dungeons promptly, and wasn't in the least surprised to find him waiting.

"You're three seconds late," he told her blankly.

"And you know as well as I, that three seconds will make no difference."

"It might."

"Not now. Anyway, you wanted to decide what the nature of this project is going to be."

"I am leaving that entirely up to you. I would like to set up some sort of work schedule. I will, of course, be exempting you from all other Potions work, and your mark will be determined by your participation in this project. Class time will be used for researching and brewing, and I think that two nights a week will suffice for out-of-class time."

She nodded. "Any time is good for me."

He thought for a moment. "Tuesdays and Thursdays, then," he decided. "Eight o'clock. Any questions?"

"When exactly is this conference?"

"The end of July. Unfortunately, that will mean you will not be able to return home for half of you summer vacation."

"Things are still being decided on that front," she said, keeping her expression schooled. "My mother thinks it will be done by August, so if that's the case it will work out perfectly."

He nodded brusquely and handed her a pass to the restricted section. "Very well. I want you to have decided on a potion by Monday."

She chewed a fingernail. It was Friday, so it didn't give her much time.

"Yes, sir."

She knew a dismissal when she heard one. Once in the library, she sifted through books, before deciding on five to check out of the library, one of which being Moste Potente Potions. The rest of the night was spent reading by the dim light in the common room.

Once morning arrived, she was the first one in the Great Hall and to scarf down a pancake before hurrying back to the library. The rest of the weekend proceeded as such, and by midnight on Sunday she had made her decision.