Wilted Celandine

Wilted Celandine

When magic abuse equals chaos let loose

Prologue

First Person, Draco's POV

"What do you mean?"

"What do you mean 'what do you mean'?! I mean exactly what I said, you pillock!"

Exasperated by my fellow Slytherin, I turned back to my potion to focus on adding the last few ingredients. I tuned out Goyle's mumbling drone, wishing for all the world that I was somewhere else. This entire week had so far been shot to hell, as far as I was concerned. There had been something to destroy all possibilities of me feeling positive on each day. First was Double Herbology on Monday, then another Quidditch match lost to Gryffindor on Tuesday. On Wednesday it had been the sudden flu I'd adapted, and Weasley's smug grin when he told me my face looked uglier than usual when it was green. It had been awfully humiliating to have to rush to the loo and puke without any time to say the usual witty retort.

And on Thursday...Jeezus Christ, my cheek still smarted from where Granger had slapped me. The bitch was totally PMS-ing her guts out at me when all I did was laugh at Potter and Weasley's Transfiguration attempts. I swear I'd heard a little crack when her hand came in contact with my face. Who did she think she was? If I was so revolting, why touch me at all? Damn Mudblood.

I glanced over at the girl in question. She sat, as usual, to Potter's left, leaning down to help Longbottom create his disaster. I had no respect for the Prefect, and she certainly didn't deserve any. Not only was she a Gryffindor, but she hung out with the riffraff, and was, overall, a smart-arse. She loved to show off.

My eyes followed her hand as she lifted it up to brush a strand of bouncy, russet hair away. Regardless of the Yule Ball temporary transformation, and her ability to now make her hair not bushy, but instead to frame her face in long ringlets, she was still the ever annoying, sassy Muggleborn, whose birth had obviously been a severe mistake.

Chapter One

Third person, Hermione's POV

Hermione's back groaned in protest as she instructed Neville about the importance of the order of putting ingredients in a potion. She felt horribly gross at the moment, like a sweaty pig. She had stayed up a little later than usual the night before writing an extra long Herbology essay, hoping to get Extra Credit points.

Dumbledore had said at the beginning of the year that any Prefects who worked hard for Extra Credit points would have much higher chances of being Head Girl or Head Boy next year. Hermione dearly wanted the position of Head Girl, for she knew that it would be a responsible and respected position. But what she really wanted as Head Girl was to be able to form inter-house relationships, helping everyone to accept other houses, and especially to stop the Gryffindor-Slytherin rivalry.

Hermione nodded, murmuring what she hoped was an encouraging, "Good job" to Neville before brushing a strand of hair from her face. Upon confiding to Ginny and other Gryffindor friends that her parents had suggested her getting a haircut, Hermione had been bombarded with shrieks of protest. Although Hermione had never been one to take advice unless she was certain it was from a bona fide source, she had admitted to herself that she agreed with her friends; getting a haircut was not something she wanted to do, and would certainly not better her appearance.

Instead, she had opted for the help of a special magic mild curling shampoo, and now her usual bushy mop was transformed into a stream of glistening, bouncy ringlets. She absolutely loved her new hairdo. Besides getting approval from her Gryffindor friends, she had also had several admiring looks from a few acquaintances from other houses.

Now, however, Hermione was beginning to wish her ringlets weren't so thick and bouncy, because they kept on getting in the way of her work. Several times last night when she'd chewed on her quill thoughtfully she had had a russet ringlet in her face the next moment. This happened again now, as she chewed her quill thoughtfully and then added the last ingredients to her potion.

Then, sitting back in satisfaction, Hermione had just grabbed her Herbology essay she'd worked on last night, as well as her Herbology book--to spell check and study more about the poisonous plant they'd used in the potion just now, Celandine--when suddenly, SPLASH! Hermione sat up, spluttering in outrage and surprise, as she found herself suddenly covered in a thick liquid.

Oh NO, she thought in despair. My potion!

Clearing the orange gooey-ness from her face, Hermione saw that her fears were confirmed. The potion she had worked on so tediously had spilled on top of her. Her Herbology essay was also ruined! But who had...?

Hermione looked around, furiously anxious, searching for the culprit....Goyle! He was standing a little ways away from her, staring at the girl he'd just transformed into a mass of pumpkin orange. It took all of Hermione's composure to stop from screaming. Malfoy! All of this was his fault! Hermione felt herself sink away from the world, pain seizing her entire body in sharp spasms.

This was it. She had remained patient and tolerating for too long! That slimy Slytherin git would get it now, oh yes he would! No more insults of 'Mudblood' would come from his nasty mouth. No more would her potions and homework be destroyed by him. This conflict had gone on too long. He had begun it; she would end it. It's outrageous that I endured Malfoy for so long, Hermione thought as she slipped into unconsciousness, but not anymore. Starting now, I won't stand for this abuse.

-----*-----

Two weeks later, and Hermione had recovered. She was finally free from the dull whiteness and empty atmosphere of the Hospital Wing. Currently, Hermione was very pleased with herself. She had caught up with all her homework, squeezed in time for more Extra Credit, and had just finished hour four of studying for the big Herbology test tomorrow.

Sighing, Hermione leaned back in her chair, smiling, her hair cascading in swirly rivulets down her shoulders. It felt so good to have a bit of rest. But no, she told herself, I must keep busy. Business is what keeps me going. If I let myself be idle, then all this effort I've given throughout the years, all the goals I've set for myself, my entire life, will be entirely wasted.

However, as she had found in the past week, there wasn't much to do at Hogwarts. Homework was always extremely easy to finish, for Hermione always read at least one chapter ahead of her classmates. Herbology, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration, Charms, Astrology, and History of Magic were quite easy. Potions was only hard to deal with because of Snape, and Arithmancy was quite enjoyable.

As for Extra Credit, Hermione did errands for teachers daily, and was joyfully becoming involved in the S.E.E.--Suppliers of Education --and R.I.G.H.T--Righteous Illuminating Generals of Health and Tolerance--clubs. She had already scourged the library for facts and history for the club she was planning to form: H.U.F.F.--Historically Unordinary Flamel Followers--a group that would dedicate themselves to learning and distributing Nicholas Flamel's ideas and wisdom.

Flitting through the library of her own mind, Hermione searched for a book that would give her images and information about magical herbs--she was planning to do a formal presentation in Herbology class the next day. Although she knew it would please Professor Sprout, she mostly wanted to do it for the fun of the research and the thrill that came with filling her head with more and more knowledge--it was like putting coins in a piggy bank.

Deep down in the back of her mind, Hermione knew why she really occupied herself all the time. Not only did she want to show everyone her full potential as a witch, to prove that Muggleborns were just as good, but she also knew that if she wasn't kept busy she would fall apart. If she became idle, she wouldn't know what to do with herself, and be subjected to the frustration that came with loss of things to think about.

The more she thought and used her brain, the easier it was to avoid lowering her own self-esteem, which she seemed to do automatically when not busy. So Hermione made sure to push herself to her limit every day, so that even at night she would be too tired to dream. Thus, dark thoughts of wishes of what could never--and, in reality, would never--happen wouldn't creep into her mind and spoil her life.

She tried to tell herself that she was content, that all was well. But nothing ever was. Nothing was every truly well, and things were only partly well if she kept going and going and going, never stopping to ponder about the other things she could be doing in the life; the things she denied actually wanting to do, or find out.

Hermione shrieked as she felt a tug, hard, on her hair. In an attempt to grab at who or what had done it, she lost her grip on the table edge, and her already tipping chair fell over with a crash. Moaning loudly in pain, Hermione remained like that for a moment, still sitting on her fallen chair. Her russet hair was in disarray, one sleeve of her gray jumper sliding sideways to reveal her shoulder, neckline curving down lopsidedly. The suede knee-length skirt she wore had slid up to her thighs, and Hermione had a distinct feeling that all who walked by would stare at her knickers.

She had just begun to try and to get up, failing miserably, when a rich, musical voice said, "Well, well, well, who would have thought the Gryffindor Prefect would so openly display her knickers, as well as give all of us present a tiny peer at her...assets. If there are any to speak of."

Hermione felt her blood run cold at the boy's words. Was there a crowd, standing there, staring at her? Was her bra showing? She felt a flush burn her cheeks as she failed to think of an indignant retort. Oh god, this is SO embarrassing! Frantic with worry, she anxiously tried to pull her jumper up and make it straight again.

A snicker met her ears, and the boy's voice said, "No use covering up, Granger, you've got nothing to be proud of underneath there. Besides, it's already obvious that you're a virgin."

Hermione wasn't sure tomatoes could be any redder than she was sure her face was now. That snicker, tone of voice, and the lack of respect he had given her told her exactly who he was.

"Malfoy! Shut up and get your arse over here and help me up! Ten points from Slytherin if you don't!"

His laugh made shivers run up and down Hermione's spine. "Ten points? Oh, please, Granger," his voice went up to a fake girly pitch, "Don't take away ten points! Please Granger, I beg you! Oh god, you're scaring me, I'm shaking in my boots!"

Even through the humiliation and frustration, Hermione became aware of something she hadn't noticed before: Malfoy's voice had broken. No more were his sneers and insults high and nasal. In fact...how long had it been since she'd heard him insult her and her friends? Quite a long time! In the past few days she hadn't heard an insult or been tricked by Malfoy at all! How strange, she thought. But then again, he's still as arrogant as ever, swaggering around like he rules the whole castle.

Wondering absentmindedly if Malfoy really was wearing boots, Hermione said coldly, "Get over here right this second unless you want it to be twenty points, you insufferable git."

Unusually, Hermione didn't feel any satisfaction at her victory as Malfoy's boots clicked against the floor in his approach. She opened her eyes as a shadow fell over her, and found herself looking up into Malfoy's steely grey gaze. For once the Slytherin's face wasn't contorted in a vicious glare, an ugly sneer, or a mocking smirk.

Expecting him to leer nastily at her at any moment, Hermione was about to open her mouth to speak when Malfoy bent down, and sliding his arms around her waist he heaved her up. Hermione's eyes widened in shock, feet dangling, as the boy slung her over his shoulder. Automatically she slid one arm around his neck, the other around him and clutching at the back of his robes.

She didn't try to figure out why her heart beat so fast at him holding her, and tried to focus on anything but the smell of his cologne, a sweet-sour cinnamon and lemony shampoo scent. There was another smell about him that she couldn't quite label, but knew that she recognized. Unable to deny that feeling someone so close to her felt good, Hermione wavered slightly, dizzy, as Malfoy put her on her feet. It had seemed to last an eternity, her trip from the chair, to his arms, to the floor, but in reality only lasted a matter of seconds.

Hermione took a deep breath, trying to compose herself, her mind blank as of what to say or do next. As he leaned towards her, Hermione smelt peppermint. Her heart was making a drumbeat in her throat, and there was no oxygen she could think to breathe in, suddenly. But then he simply gave her a tiny smile, almost just a quirk of his lips, and flicking a ringlet of hair from her face to tuck it behind her ear, Malfoy turned on his heel and glided away.

Falling, gasping, to kneel on the floor, Hermione whimpered, pounding her fists on the floor. Why did I let him why did I let him why did I let him, AUGH! He shouldn't have had any effect on me at all, but...he did. Somehow.