Detention
Hermione sat with her head in her hands, pressing the backs of her palms to her eyelids, blocking her vision with a kaleidoscope of colours and shapes so as not to face the reality that was in front of her.
This could not be happening. Her perfect disciplinary record, tainted. And all because of—
“Welcome, Mr Malfoy. Take any seat you’d like. You know the rules already, I’m sure. No talking, no passing notes. You might instead like to use this as an opportunity to get your homework done, since that’s the reason you’re in here," drawled Professor Moreau from the front of the classroom, looking at Malfoy from over the top of his half-moon spectacles. "I understand that it is a busy semester for you, but your father would be most disappointed if your exemplary academic record was in any way affected by your extracurriculars,” Moreau said sternly in lightly accented English.
Malfoy ignored Professor Moreau and stalked into the classroom, hoisting his sports bag nonchalantly over one shoulder. He was tall, with a well-built frame and muscles formed from years of being on the school’s lacrosse team. All the hours that he spent on the field training, however, didn’t seem to have an impact on his skin, which was alabaster pale and only slightly darker than his white-blonde hair.
Hermione averted her eyes as he walked past her, flinching as his leg bumped into her desk on his way to the back of the classroom.
Hermione heard the sound of a bag being thrown onto the floor and the harsh scrape of a chair being drawn back from its desk, the screech of metal on wood making her hair stand on end.
Professor Moreau frowned at Malfoy’s display. “Detention finishes at 4.30pm. Not a second before,” he said authoritatively, giving Malfoy a dirty look before returning to his marking.
Hermione took a deep, steadying breath and tried to ignore the fact that the school’s most prolific arsehole was sitting only a few seats behind her. She focused on the words on the chalkboard at the front of the room, left over from the previous lesson. French grammar - one of her best subjects.
Hermione’s heart rate dropped as she focused on the list of French verbs on the blackboard. She went through the list, copying the words and phrases down into her notebook. She paused on the last one.
Faire confiance. To trust.
“Merde,” Professor Moreau jumped out of his seat a few minutes later, and Hermione jumped along with him, startled out of her revision. The professor's eyes were glued to his huge leather bound diary, sweeping down the page in a panic.
“Alright, listen,” he said, grabbing his papers and shoving them into his satchel. “I have to go – it seems as though I have another engagement. I will not be able to supervise the rest of detention, but I trust that you will see through to the end of it, or risk doing another hour with me on Friday.” He paused his shoving to give them a stern look. “Trust me, I’ll know if you leave early.” He gave them one last glare before commencing his packing and rushing out the door without another word.
Hermione stared, dumbfounded, her mind still on French grammar.
“He won’t know.”
Hermione turned around. “What?”
Malfoy sat sprawled in his chair, ankles crossed in front of him. His large frame dwarfed the desk. “If we leave early. There’s no way he could find out.”
“Well, I’m not risking it. I don’t want detention on a Friday.” She turned back to the board.
“Like you have plans.”
Hermione froze, then whipped her head around so hard that her curls slapped her in the face.
“What?” she said again.
Malfoy’s eyes widened. It occurred to her that he didn't expect her to say anything back. She didn't blame him. She hadn't exactly earned a reputation as a wisecrack or someone who talked back in the past two years.
Malfoy was now staring at her inquisitively, his pale eyebrows ever so slightly furrowed over his grey eyes.
“What are you even in here for?” he asked. Hermione could tell that he tried to keep his voice unaffected, but she could hear the hint of genuine curiosity in his tone.
Hermione turned around and pulled out her copy of Jane Eyre, opening the book up to the page she had dog-eared that morning.
“I told your girlfriend to va chier.”
If Malfoy was drinking water, he would have spat it out.
“Wait, Pansy? She’s not my girlfriend, she’s just a friend.”
“Well, either way.”
Hermione could hear Malfoy’s surprise in the silence that ensued; could hear him trying to piece the situation together.
“Why did you tell her to do that?” he asked incredulously.
“Why are you still here? Professor Moreau’s gone, you can leave, like you said.” Pansy may not be his girlfriend, but his association with the black-bobbed dance captain made Hermione inclined to hate him.
If Hermione didn’t hate him based on who he was friends with, she would have hated him on principle alone—The Prince Consort of Godric’s Hollow. His family was practically the town’s royalty—one of the richest, oldest, and most well-connected families in the province, if not the whole of England.
And Malfoy himself was something to behold. A top student despite spending all his time on the field, where he was the star captain of the Godric's Hollow Grammar lacrosse team. Popular, respected, feared. On track to get a scholarship to whichever university his heart desired, not that his family needed the funding.
It baffled her how he consistently kept up with her in class, how they were neck and neck in almost every subject, despite his extracurriculars and, if rumors were to be believed, his weekends spent partying.
She despised him.
“Why am I still here? That’s a good question,” Malfoy murmured to himself. He said it so softly she wasn't sure if he had meant for her to hear him.
A heavy blanket of silence fell onto the room, enveloping them both.
“Your little Queen Bee said that I couldn’t get someone to go to the Soiree with me even if I paid them,” she said after a while, when she couldn’t stand the stifling silence anymore. She wasn’t entirely sure why she was telling him this, but it felt good to get the words out. Pansy’s comment had been ringing in her mind all day, and she didn’t exactly have a host of friends to dissect the situation with, or to reassure her that she wasn’t a complete social pariah.
She hated to admit it but Pansy’s comment, delivered as on off-hand remark during French class, bothered her. Although Hermione was for the most part left alone, occasionally someone would, out of boredom more than spite, aim a well-directed quip in her direction. She usually ignored these rare instances where her invisibility shield failed, however that afternoon Pansy had aimed her comment with the precision of an Olympic archer and hit Hermione right where it hurt most.
She could still see the look of utter surprise on Pansy’s face when Hermione had fired back, spurned by the little stab of pain that the girls' comment had brought.
“She not 'my little' anything, let’s get that straight, first of all,” Malfoy said, annoyance creeping into his voice.
“Whatever. She’s part of your entourage.”
“Do you mean the dance squad, Granger? The one that performs when the games are on? You know that I have no charge over that, right?”
“Yeah, but you have charge over who you’re friends with, and you’re friends with that little snake.”
“At least I have friends, snakes or not.”
Ouch. Another tender spot.
“Are they your friends, Malfoy, or just people that have grown on you like barnacles since you were a baby? Have you ever made a friend in your life, or are they simply something that’s been handed to you, like your big, fat inheritance or your father’s titles.” Her voice had risen without her even realising it. As soon as the words left her mouth Hermione felt the temperature in the room drop. She bit her lip, suddenly wishing that she hadn’t said anything.
She sat in the icy silence for a second, two seconds, before turning back around to face Malfoy.
Malfoy met her with a glare, his grey eyes simmering with what she could only describe as pure, undiluted hatred.
“Piss off, Granger. Pansy was right.” He stood to his full height. From where she sat, he seemed like a giant. She suddenly felt very, very small. “No one in their right mind would go to the dance with you.”
With that, he lugged his bag off the floor, threw it over his shoulder, and strode out of the classroom—the exact same way that he’d come in, except this time he slammed the door on his way out.
Hermione looked down at her hands. They were shaking in her lap. She made herself take a deep, steadying breath, burying them in the crook of her elbows as she crossed her arms. Breathe, she told herself. She found that she’d been needing that reminder quite a lot, lately.
She checked her watch: 4.30pm.