It seemed particularly low, digging up a grave when its occupant was barely cold in the ground.
But Hermione considered herself practical, so she only muttered a quick apology under her breath before driving her shovel into the packed earth.
A twig snapped somewhere, and she stilled, peering into the darkness.
“Hagrid?” she whispered.
When no one answered, she checked that her Notice-Me-Not charm was firmly in place before continuing to shovel away the dirt.
It was uncomfortable, being this close to the edge of the The Forbidden Forest at night. That shouldn’t have been surprising, but she was used to having Hagrid at her side here, dwarfing everything around him like one of the forest’s own trees.
An irrational part of her wished he was with her standing watch, but then she’d have to explain . . . Hermione looked down at the crudely fashioned headstone at her feet (now knocked askew) and grimaced.
Right. Best to not run into Hagrid.
As she dug, curls began escaping her topknot to spring around her sweaty face. She brushed an arm across her forehead, wishing she’d thought to do some spell research to get this done more efficiently. They were always learning silly little charms in class, but surely wizards must have something for bloody digging?
She mentally added the query to a running list she hoped to sink her teeth into later at the library.
Later—when this dirty business was done—she’d have a hot mug of tea and bring it to her secret spot in the third floor stacks. Maybe she’d even risk sneaking Crookshanks past Madam Pince again. Then she’d finally crack open that obscure charms book she’d been waiting to read for ages . . .
Her wistful planning was interrupted when the edge of the shovel struck something soft and squishy. Hermione wrinkled her nose before carefully working around it.
The task proved harder than expected; thousands of sharp, dagger-like black hairs poked out of the dirt like some horrible species of grass, scraping across the shovel at every pass with a grating sound. There was no helping that, it seemed, so Hermione cast a muffliato for good measure.
Finally, the entirety of a limp, gigantic spider leg lay sprawled at her feet.
“Hello, Aragog,” she whispered.
“Hello, Granger,” a voice answered.
Before she could pull out her wand, Hermione’s body stiffened under the unmistakable effects of a stunning spell. A strong one.
She stood frozen over the grave, somehow feeling on the verge of falling while every limb felt heavy and rooted to the spot. She could only watch helplessly as a blond head of hair emerged from the night’s shadows. An awfully familiar blond . . .
Had she been able, she would have thrown a curse. Her heart raced instead.
The cloaked figure of Draco Malfoy strode toward the grave without giving her a second glance—confident, apparently, that his prey was thoroughly snared and defanged.
Hermione’s eyes, the only thing she could move, flicked down to watch him prod at the spider leg with the toe of a polished dragonhide boot.
“A shame, isn’t it?” he commented, as though remarking on the weather. “Such a magnificent creature, taken from the world too soon.”
Hermione held a differing opinion on Aragog’s supposed magnificence, but she would have to keep that to herself.
Malfoy sighed. “You know, this isn’t nearly as interesting as I thought it would be.”
Hermione felt her pulse stutter when she found a pair of grey eyes locked on her own.
“You can be quite annoying when you talk,” he clarified without a hint of expression. “But your complete silence might be even worse. I would have never guessed.”
With a wave of his wand, Hermione felt her tongue loosen, as though coming unstuck from the roof of her mouth.
“Interestingisn’t how I’d describe any of this,” she said shakily. Her feet were going numb and slowly sinking into the damp earth.
Would he let her keep sinking until she shared a grave with the spider? That seemed like the sort of thing he’d find funny.
In the dark, she could still trace the faint outline of those sharp hairs and began counting. 1, 2, 3, 4 . . .
“You may have a point there. It wasn’t exactly thrilling watching you sweat over a dirt pile for a half hour.”
Why, then, stay for the show?
She narrowed her eyes. “Are you going to unfreeze the rest of me, or are you not done playing with your food yet?”
He twirled his wand lazily. “That depends. Do you plan on running away or trying to hex me in the name of Gryffindor?”
She buried her fear. “No, I’d rather see this through, actually.”
“This,” he gestured widely at the ground, “being grave robbery.”
“Yes,” she paused deliberately. “And I think you have a vested interest here too.”
“Why would you—“
“—you watched me dig for a whole half hour before attacking, Malfoy. Now that I’ve done the bulk of the work for us both, you can at least stop pretending we aren’t here for the same reason.”
Something like a laugh escaped him. It sounded different than the one she was used to. Odd.
“I’m glad I let you talk again.”
The moonlight hid her bemused flush.
When he waved his wand again, feeling returned to Hermione’s limbs in such a rush that she nearly fell over.
She ignored the boy at her side as she clumsily pulled her legs free of the earth, then passed him the shovel.
His hands closed reluctantly around the handle, as though he’d only accepted it on reflex. “What’s this for?”
“Your turn,” she said shortly.
“Malfoys don’t dig.”
Hermione shot him the same withering look she gave Ron whenever he tried foisting off his homework on her. “You can be the first, then. Besides, I thought Slytherins liked making their own rules.”
“We do—when it benefits us.” He considered her for a moment. “I could just make you do it again.”
Her pulse sped up. “Oh, are we back to being cowardly and pulling wands when backs are turned?” And where had her own blasted wand gone?
“Cowardly? Some might just call that clever.”
“Some might spend too much time around other snakes to know the difference.”
Something glittered in his eyes before he stooped to pick up a twig. A moment later, it was transfigured into a second shovel. He passed it to her.
“I’ve already done my share,” she said.
His shovel hit the earth. “You can argue or you can start digging, Granger. Or would you rather go back and forth like this until morning, when that oaf comes back?”
“He’s not an oaf,” she snapped, already digging again.
How had she nearly forgotten about poor Hagrid?
The two worked in tense silence for a while. Hermione only risked a sideways glance once, pleased to see a faint sheen of sweat marring that annoyingly perfect brow.
Malfoy caught her eye before she could look away and smirked. “You really need to learn to stop talking.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t need to. Pleased, are you, to see a Malfoy brought so low?”
He didn’t sound nearly as miffed about it as she would have expected.
“I don’t care about the Malfoys at all, or anyone who thinks they’re above getting their hands a little dirty.”
“We’re infamous for getting our hands dirty, actually. Just more in the . . . metaphorical sense.”
She shook her head.Unbelievable.
When they finally unearthed Aragog’s gaping maw and dozens of deadened black eyes, Hermione shivered and averted her eyes.
“After all that talk, I wouldn’t expect you to be so squeamish, Granger.”
“I happen to prefer my spiders small enough to catch under a cup.”
When she was little, her dad taught her how to slide a paper underneath so they could be freed out on the back porch.
“Muggles,” was all Malfoy said, shaking his head.