Potions Homework

Potions Homework

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6. Endless Possibilities

Harry had just been scarred for life. No, not like that. It wasn't a physical, lightning bolt-shaped scar but it marked him just the same. Well, not quite the same. It affected his mental and emotional stability [he should consider a therapist. Or a lawsuit] rather than his physical health.

As he stumbled up the steps leading to the Gryffindor tower, thankfully distanced from the second floor broom closet where he'd discovered his best friend and worst enemy, Harry mind was still numb with shock.

Hermione? Hermione and Malfoy?

What on heaven, earth, or hell, had transpired that she would turn to him? It couldn't be the love potion, he was positive, because he'd seen for himself that Ginny had switched the potions to save Hermione. But had she really saved her? True, instead of falling desperately in love with Malfoy, Hermione had turned into a carbon copy of him, but what he'd just witnessed a few minutes ago really made Harry wonder if maybe turning into Malfoy had addled Hermione's brain as well.

Hermione? Kissing Malfoy?

Either the little devils downstairs were planning an ice-skating tournament or there was a big glitch in His computer upstairs. Harry wasn't happy with the results either way. [Ahem, lawsuit.]

Confused, stunned, and disgusted as he was, Harry was certain of one thing.

There was absolutely, positively, no way in Grimm's fairy tales was he going to tell Ron what he'd just seen.

Parvati or not, the redheaded Weasley wasn't likely to react well.

~

Ginny sighed. Why was it all taking so long? Bloody-- Patience, Virginia, patience, she coached herself silently, taking a deep breath. She chanted her newfound mantra to herself: Good things come to those who wait. And boy, was she experienced with waiting.

Just a little longer. Things were coming along swimmingly. Everything would be fine. [It damn well better be after all the time I've invested in this! Ginny thought fiercely.]

She allowed herself a little smile.

~

That night, in the Great Hall [think food! Think enchanted ceiling! Think the author's running out of original locales...] Hermione was poking at her food in a decidedly un-Hermione way. While the Gryffindors were used to seeing Harry or even Ron push their food around on their plates, mumbling about not being hungry, Hermione had always been the practical one. And wasting food when one's body depended on it for energy just wasn't practical. And let's not get into the whole "house-elves are slaving away in the kitchens to prepare your meal, how do you show your appreciation?" issue...

But tonight, Hermione was assuredly not eating. Her mashed potatoes had been sculpted into a lump that vaguely resembled a dragon, her sliced carrots were stacked in three even piles of four, and her Oriental chicken and broccoli were coated with a layer of almond sauce in which the initial D had been etched.

"Taking the subtle approach, are we?" Harry whispered, eyeing her monogrammed chicken in disgust. "Do you want a certain, unnamed Weasley to figure out?"

Hermione glanced across the table at the Weasley in question. Ron was happily gnawing at a chicken leg, barbeque sauce dripping down his chin. She glanced at Harry, who sat beside her, with a questioning expression on her face. That Weasley? her eyes seemed to ask, gleaming with faint amusement.

Harry bit his lip in consideration. "Okay, so he probably wouldn't notice at dinner...but honestly." He reached over and smeared the D back into a glop of sauce. "Eat, Hermione," he said in exasperation.

"I can't."

A concerned look crossed his face. While Harry knew just how unappealing Malfoy was to his appetite, considering Hermione's current...er...preoccupation with him, she really oughtn't to be reacting in quite the same way. Unless of course, kissing that unspeakable git had somehow robbed her of her ability to eat...

"Oh Harry, I can't eat, I can't sleep, I can't think!" Hermione latched on to his arm, her brown eyes shining [with excitement, happiness, or lust, Harry wasn't sure]. "I know it's horrible but...oh, it makes me dizzy." The smile on her face was wide. "Being in love, why, it's such a lovely feeling."

" 'Lovely,' " he repeated dryly.

Hermione looked embarrassed suddenly. "I know I've said romance was a big waste of time and whatnot," she admitted, twirling her fork idly, "and that our studies should be our focus but, oh, I never knew..." A dreamy looked crossed her face again. Then, hastily, her gaze clearing, she added, "Not that I've forgotten about school. No sir! Our exams are coming up--have you been studying?" she asked severely. Then, "That reminds me, I have that Transfiguration research to do...and that Arithmancy...oh damn."

She sounded, Harry thought warmly, quite put out.

Oh, not that he took any pleasure in her distress, quite the opposite, in fact. She was, after all, his best friend, and he certainly wouldn't wish any unhappiness on her [even if it was finishing a homework assignment one week instead of two weeks before it was due]. It was just such a relief to hear Hermione mutter about schoolwork--it was so normal and so out of place with recent events. It was quite a nice feeling.

"Ron, Ron, oh do take that cherry tart out of your mouth. You do know you're not supposed to fit the entire thing in your mouth, don't you?" Hermione was giving Ron a look that said she rather doubted the extent of his intelligence. "Come on, finish up. We have to go to the library!"

Ron gave her a questioning look, his mouth too full to speak.

"Why?" Harry was more articulate.

"To study, of course!"

"Why?" Slightly.

Hermione frowned at his plaintive tone. "Oh, shush, the both of you. If you want to pass your exams this term--without cramming for them two hours before you take them, like you did last year--then you'd better follow my advice." She set her fork down next to her rather full plate and stood up, surveying her friends and the rest of the Gryffindor table with an imperious stare. "Let's go."

Harry sighed. Oh the bitter, bitter irony. It would have to come back and bite him in the nose, wouldn't it? To think, merely seconds ago, he'd been welcoming the fact that Hermione was obsessing over her studies.

"Hurry up, Harry! Ron!"

Damn, damn, damn--ow! Harry glowered at Hermione's fork. Apparently, now a frustrated sixteen-year-old couldn't even bang his fist on the table without being bodily harmed. Honestly, was the entire world out to get him? He rubbed the side of his hand, grimacing.

Oh, that's right. It was.

~

The next day was a Saturday. A sunny and warm Saturday with an incredibly blue sky and puffy white clouds and a remarkably gentle breeze blowing in from the south. It was definitely an out-of-ordinary Saturday for Scotland, especially in October. The kind of Saturday where students put off their weekend homework for another day and spent hours lying in the sun, hoping for a tan (the Patil twins had recruited many of their friends to sunbathe with them on the front lawn), playing Quidditch (the Ravenclaw team was currently practicing), going for a row on the lake (Justin Finch-Fletchley was at the moment wondering whether or not to make Terry Boot the giant squid's midday snack), or just going for a romp on the grass (Lavender's high-pitched squeals of laughter indicated Seamus's playful mood).

It was definitely the kind of Saturday reserved for enjoying oneself.

Harry, Hermione, and Ron, however, were studying.

The only highlight that the two boys could find was that at least they were studying outside. Though, sometimes, Ron wondered if it wasn't just further torture, being so close to one's desire and heaving it constantly denied by the fierce glare piercing him from a pair of formidable brown eyes.

"Hermione," he grumbled.

"Would you care to explain why Ashwinders are considered dangerous?" she snapped, irked by his complaining tone.

He stared moodily up at the branches of the oak tree they were sitting under. Or rather, Hermione was sitting under. He and Harry were more or less sprawled on the grass, propped up on their elbows as they flipped listlessly through their textbooks. "Because they're born from fire and lay eggs whose hatchlings will scorch anything they touch."*

A smile smoothed her furrowed brow. "You have been paying attention!" she exclaimed delightedly.

Harry groaned. Hermione glanced at him. He was staring in the direction of the Quidditch pitch.

Hermione sighed.

Ron continued staring at the red and gold leaves of the oak above him (Gryffindor colors, he thought bemusedly) that were faintly tinged with the brown color of death (Funny, I always thought black was associated with death.). He sighed.

Harry ran a hand through his hair, shoving his fringe out of his eyes as he gazed in the direction of the Quidditch field, tensing imperceptibly when he caught sight of the new Ravenclaw Seeker (I miss Cho, he thought, she never really acknowledged my presence but at least it was someone to crush on...now who do I have? Ginny? No...too much like a sister. Hermione? No...not with her current obsession over Malfoy. Parvati? No...I'd like to be able to hold a conversation that isn't all about makeup and cute guys. Oh hell.) He sighed.

"All right, all right!" Hermione threw her hands up in exasperation. "You're obviously not going to keep your minds on school, no matter how important it is." She smiled at them resignedly. "Go. Run off. Have fun. Watch the Ravenclaws practice so we can wipe the Quidditch pitch with them next Saturday."

The Gryffindor Seeker and Chaser's eyes lit up.

"Thanks Hermione!" called out Ron, hurriedly gathering his textbooks and springing to his feet.

"You're a doll, love." Harry grinned at her and was already heading towards the dorm, ready to drop off his school things and pick up his Quidditch gear. In his eagerness, he had already started pulling off his jumper, his books jammed in the bag levitating by his side [It was a useful spell only seventh-years were allowed to perform. They did have quite a few more subjects than the younger students, after all.]. No less than three girls basking in the late morning sunlight whistled in appreciation at the expanse of tanned skin revealed when the shirt Harry had been wearing under his cardigan was dragged up along with his jumper.

Hermione groaned and buried her face in her hands. Oh Merlin. Harry was becoming such the ladies' man. It was quite funny, actually, when it wasn't so embarrassing...

She supposed it was because she had known him when he was the short, gangly, eleven-year-old clueless about the world of magic. It rather ruined any perception she could've held as him being the--how did it go?--ruthless charmer. She snorted at the thought.

"Harry," she snickered to herself. "A 'ruthless charmer.' That'll be the day."

"I quite agree."

Hermione whirled around. "Draco!" she gasped, her eyes flying upwards.

Leaning casually against the trunk of the tree, his hands tucked in his pockets, the golden sunlight highlighting his features as if he were some sort of god, was Draco Malfoy. "Potter will never hope to achieve the status I have," he drawled, a faint smirk playing across his lips.

And Merlin, did he look edible.

Hermione blinked. Where had that come from?

"What are you doing here?" she asked instead, shifting the heavy DADA on her lap self-consciously.

"I go to school here, Granger."

She narrowed her eyes. "You know what I mean," she said impatiently.

He pushed himself off the tree and sidled to stand in front of her. He gazed down at her face, now lined with exasperation, framed with wavy brown hair that she hadn't bothered to tie back that day. "I was looking for you," he said simply.

"Why?"

"Just to talk." Draco seated himself beside her. "Are you honestly studying for the exams?" He picked up her Arithmancy book and flipped through it, noting the color-coded stickers marking specific pages and highlighted notes.

Hermione crossed her arms. "Yes," she said defiantly, "I am. And I presume you haven't started at all?"

He grinned at her. "I'm done, love."

Her mouth fell open. "B-but...you..." She collected her wits. "Well, that's just a horrible attitude. We're still learning new things--you have to review everything constantly, up until the exams! Otherwise, nothing will be fresh in your mind and you'll know maybe half the exam and after that, you'll just fail miserably! Why Draco, if you really want any chance at beating me for top marks you'll have to--"

A finger placed gently on her lips stopped her mid-sentence.

"You talk too much, Hermione."

She found herself at a loss for words, the look in his glittering gray eyes robbing her of speech. When did he get so close? When had it gotten so hot? Why was her head spinning like she was on an out-of-control carousal?

"Draco..." she murmured, staring wide-eyed at him. She struggled to regain her thoughts. Pushing him back slightly, she said softly, "I thought you said it'd never work between us."

And it wouldn't.

Even though the war was over and the Light side had won, Lucius Malfoy lived. He was in Azkaban, true, and Hermione couldn't even begin to imagine how horrible that was for Draco. Lucius had been a Death Eater and had killed dozens of innocents and undoubtedly deserved to be in wizard's prison, but still, he was Draco's father. And he still had a hold over the young Malfoy. He had the first fifteen years of Draco's life, a youth he'd spent not merely influencing but instructing his son in the ways of the Dark Arts. And he had ingrained a sense of supremacy in his heir, a condescension towards lesser people, and an arrogance born of a Malfoy. It wouldn't be easy to change.

But the real question was, Hermione thought, even as her heart raced wildly, was whether or not he wanted to.

"It won't," Draco agreed, his face inches from hers.

Her hopes fell. He wasn't willing to make things work between them...

"But," he added, an intent look on his face.

"But..." she echoed, hope flaring again.

Sunlight dappled his light hair as he drew back from her, leaving his sentence unfinished and her with a sense of loss and feeling rather cold in the breeze. He stared at her and she returned the look, a silence falling between them that neither seemed eager to breach. Draco sat back and loosened his silver and green tie.

Hermione looked sadly at it. It was a symbol of how different they were. Slytherin. Gryffindor. Pureblood. Muggle-born. Heck, even their coloring--light, dark. Though that in itself was a bit of irony, Hermione thought. His coloring was very, very light. Pale blonde hair and a paler complexion that rarely ever tanned. Yet he had been on the Dark side. And she, with her dark hair and olive complexion, had been fighting for the Light.

Hermione lowered her gaze to the grass beneath her. Green. Scattered upon it were the fallen leaves from the oak tree above. Red.

Slytherin.

"But," Draco said again, his voice so quiet she almost didn't hear him above the shouting of nearby students.

Gryffindor.

"We can try."

Her eyes met his.

"In vain?" It was a question.

"Probably."

She edged her hand toward his. "I don't care," she said determinedly, sliding her hand into his. "We'll try."

He looked at her for a moment. Then, "Exactly what I expected from the little Gryffindor bookworm." He was smirking at her. "Stubborn little girl, aren't you?"

"Excuse me?" She gaped at him. "I happen to be a prefect! Destined to be Head Girl next year. And I have the highest marks in our year. It's not stubbornness, it's determination!"

"May I remind you that I'm also a prefect, will probably be Head Boy next year, and have the second highest marks in our year?"

Hermione looked at him. "We're not that different, after all..." she said softly, wonderingly.

"You know I'm only joking, Hermione?"

"You're a git, Draco."

His mouth twitched and Hermione thought she saw signs of that telltale smirk. It didn't bother her...somehow, now, she found it quite endearing. "You know you are."

"Yes, I rather think I am."

He kissed her.

And Hermione decided that Draco Malfoy may be a git, but he was most definitely her git.

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