v
Hermione enters the room, panting, hair dancing around her head, eyebrows raised in some furious worry. As she realizes the professor has not yet arrived, she calms a bit, before joining Malfoy at her table. She empties her bag quietly, preparing her quill, plus some papers on the side of it. At the year's start, Malfoy had come to her, apologies howling abundant sincerity. Nonetheless, she did not forgive him. It was too much, too much had been done, and too much had not been done. It was —still quite is— bizarre, to be utterly honest. Yet, he had come every Saturday morning to their shared ancient runes classes with an honest 'Good morning as well, Granger'. He sometimes would conveniently forget on their desk some parts Hermione hadn't had time to write down —for Professor Babbling is known by her speedy speech, even at other times would forget entire books surrounding one particular subject of their curriculum only known by purebloods. Bizarre, in every single sense. She wonders at times whether that was how Slytherins showed they cared, in their own particular way, fitting with their snarking behaviors, utterly bizarre still. She tries not to get too close, for people hardly change, however, it accounts to be quite difficult. For Malfoy acts so much differently from their past shared years it feels weird to not think of him as Draco. Utterly, wholly bizarre indeed.
As Hermione sits beside Draco this Saturday, she wonders whether their plan was a big mistake after all. She then needs a few moments to entirely grasp the picture. Either Draco's state is worse than she ever thought, or he forgot to cast his charms today. His face isn't hidden by magic this morning. Purple and blue color his cheeks and eyes, while his lips redden from dried blood and bite wounds. Shoulders slouched, head rested on his head, she would not have recognized him had he not been at her side every Saturday morning from now.
"Good morning, Draco." She smiles softly, in vain attempts to not freak her classmate.
His eyes open slowly, as if drunk on sleep. He stays silent for a few seconds. "Good morning as well, Granger."
"Is everything okay with you?" She asks, perfectly knowing she will not get an honest answer anyway. She hesitates for a while, to cast a Patronus for Harry, to abort their rendezvous.
He sighs loudly, sorting out quills and papers. "Surely, I am not obliged to answer that."
"You're not." She grins, and Draco narrows his eyes. For it is a grin too foreign from Granger, and too like Pansy's.
Professor Babbling arrives in the classroom, his robes a mess of wrinkles and his dulling voice already blasting about ancient Estonian runes. Yet, as Draco's quill falls into a quiet rhythmic pattern, she follows. Runes written from Old Norse, with the Youngest Futhark, later influenced as Aesti developed through its countless kingdoms. Remnants of forgotten history, always sung and spoken of. Draco listens to the professor's tells; counting folklore, deciphering millennium years old runes, dancing through time's influence and each century's tendencies. His quill dances along his parchment; deal all forgotten. The hour passes away quickly, his anxious water does not even have time to arise as Granger stands up abruptly from her chair.
"Wait a second," he says only, swiftly tidying parchments, ink, and quill back to his bag. "I have a book for you, from Jordanes. He was a sixth-century pureblood historian. He wrote a very interesting retelling of Cassiodorius' book, regarding Aesti and 'The Origins and the Deeds of the Goths'. Though, unfortunately, Cassiodorius' original work has been destroyed, Jordanes' remains still a precious insight into Estonian runes, especially towards the Vikings' impact on them. I suppose now that you are such a good friend of Pansy, I shall lend it to you at lunch."
Hermione fights valiantly a laugh, he is a bit of a history dork. His eyes light up, and as he talks of Vikings and Estonia, his hands dance around him. She smiles a bit, nodding silently as they both walk towards the corridors.
However, behind their classroom still closed doors, Ron lets out a very much annoyed sigh. He can not believe himself! To get up, at nine o'clock, on a Saturday! Bloody Malfoy. As if that was not enough, he had to be surrounded by other Slytherins. Parkinson grins at him, seconds away from laughing in pure mockery. While Zabini stands against the wall, eyes sparking with knowing glee. Harry isn't reliable support either; his fingers keep running at his neck, jumping from one foot to another, glancing from Ron, to Parkinson, to Zabini, to Ron again, to Zabini, to Parkin—
"I suppose you stand there waiting for dear Draco to come by, don't you?" She simpers, and Harry freezes on the spot.
His fingers fall back to his side, ready to attack whoever strikes first. Parkinson's grin seems frightening, as if she knew of mooncakes, muffins, and snowflakes.
“In fact, I am not. We were waiting for you both,” Harry articulates slowly, his eyes running between both Slytherins.
Evidently, the two share a curious glance. Parkinson folds her arms, furrows her eyebrows a bit before painting on a blank face. All should watch for wrinkles, really. Zabini, fingers upon his lips, points accusatory, “Even if you did, we wouldn’t have let you.” He smiles falsely, his pupils dangerous on both boys. “No offense, Potter.”
Harry rolls his eyes, an evident sigh on his lips. “Sure, whatever.” As if any of them remotely scared him, he did bring down Voldemort, does no one remember? In any way, “Avery.” He says only, not wanting to lose time beating around the bush.
“What about him?” Parkinson immediately jumps. “Is he one of your little jokes, Potter? Did Snape infuse his sense of humour to you when—"
“Pans’,” Blaise interrupts, a hand on her shoulder. Gryffindors were not blessed with good acting, thus Potter and Weasley's reaction told him all that he needed. They appear disconcerted by Pansy’s reaction. “What about Avery?” He says instead, softening his face.
“Heard he was supposed to be Azkaban,” Ron merely says, as Hermione instructed him to do.
Parkinson sighs, a scornful look in her eyes. “What? Do you not trust our dear headmistress McGonagall to ensure her beloved students’ safety?”
Harry exhales loudly, both hands on his eyes. “Here I thought Malfoy tired me out with the sarcasm, but you’re so much worse.”
“Sure. Tires you out,” Zabini repeats, his voice singing each word. “Maybe you wouldn’t be this tired if you kept your eyes to yourself.”
Ron opens his mouth, ready to retort, yet Harry forestalled him. “Maybe I would keep my eyes to myself if you were half the friend you pretend to be. That goes for you too, Parkinson.” Before any of them could add anything, Harry continues, voice low and accusing. “Maybe you would have noticed if you weren’t focused on what I look at, that Avery follows your dear Malfoy at night.”
Neither of the Slytherins responded at first. Yet, all of a sudden, Parkinson becomes whiter than any sheet Harry had seen. Her face wrings in ways he never witnessed in eight years, and as her shoulders begin to shake, Zabini cups her face between his hands. “Chut, chut,” he starts, his voice weak and trembling.“Ça va aller, tout va bien se passer. Pansy, écoutes-moi,” The girl sets her wide eyes into Blaise’s. “Draco est dans la salle juste à côté, d’accord? Avec Hermione, tout va bien. Tout va bien, on l’accompagnera la nuit, c’était stupide de notre part de le laisser seul… comme ça.”
“Imagines. Imagines si–” Her voice echoes sobs, and even though Harry could not understand French, he imagines sobbing was an international sound.
“Non, non, ça sert à rien, Pans’. Imaginer, ça sert à rien.” Blaise breaks away from Pansy's eyes, still wide and struggling to stay dry. He then turns to both Gryffindors, eyebrows furrowed in silent anger. “How do you know of this? Did you follow them?”
Harry shrugs, arms crossed over his chest. “I have my ways. Not sure I want to share with the rest of you.”
Pansy slowly peers at Harry, disgust evident through her pupils. Her anger barely contained in her fists. She opened her mouth to speak, yet the classroom doors flew open. Six students escape the classroom, all yawning and babbling over 'Eastern European nonsense'. When finally, Hermione exits the classroom as well. Her bright smile contradicts the darkness of her skin, and Ron thinks of stars at night, a smitten grin on his face. Said grin that falls quickly to the floor, as Malfoy follows behind. He speaks of Eastern European history with the same smile on his cheeks, and Harry thinks of oyster pearls in clear waters, a fond glance which quickly melts away under Parkinson’s stare.
Although, Draco Malfoy does not spare a glance at him, nor Ron. He murmurs quiet words to Hermione, before flying back to the two Slytherins.
Ron sighs, finally. He was growing tired of it all, and is more than relieved to meet his bed once again. However, much contrary to his hopes, Hermione follows Malfoy to the Slytherins.
She kindly puts a hand on Parkinson’s shoulders, as her voice quietens. “Good morning Pansy,” she smiles.
“Hermione,” the other responds, her voice brittle enough to raise Granger’s eyebrows up.
She turns to the other despite her stare heavy on the girl. “Hi, Zabini,” she also says, a hand in the air.
“Granger,” he nods as well, shaking her hand politely.
The Muggleborn searches a moment in her bag, before handing piece of parchment to Zabini. “Here, your transfiguration notes were quite useful. Thank you,” and Ron thought it to be rubbish. Since when does Hermione need any help in transfiguration? And yes, he felt a bit awkward –and honestly, quite stupid too. Obviously, Hermione was friend with the both of them.
Zabini eyes the paper, not letting anything apparent. “Yes, quite hope it has been of use,” he nods at the girl, a lurking smile in the corner of his mouth. “Until next time, Granger.”
Upon this, all three of Slytherins disappeared behind stairs and walls. Hermione turns around as well, a suspicious face plastered. “What in the bloody hell did you two do? You did warn Pansy as I told you two to do about Avery, is that right?”
“Obviously,” Harry sighs, his arm thrown in the air.
“What’s the deal with this transfiguration class?” Ron interrupts, eyebrows furrowed.
Hermione exhales quietly, exhausted of them both. “Obviously, I passed upon a message Ronald. It’s a code, I do well on my own with class, thank you very much. And Harry, I really hope you weren’t a douche about it.” She stays quiet for a few seconds, pondering over how they even got into this situation at all. “Let’s go to the library, try and seek some information about this Avery family, yes?”
Ron doesn’t answer. Perhaps if no one did, he could spend his dear –and very much deserved, weekend doing anything other than Malfoy-related activities. However, Harry nods, and all three of them had to walk towards the library. Damn Gryffindoresque spirit indeed, for once Ron could understand how the Slytherins felt about it.
Thankfully, Draco does not comment on the morning. As dinner comes, he keeps quiet, eyeing the unique strawberry muffin on his plate. Blaise's bored pupils explore today's Great Hall. Most seem focused on their own meals, yet the three Gryffindors' attention appears to be taken by another subject. Potter's glances fall on Draco —as it usually does. However, Weasley alternates between both ends of Slytherin's table. Blaise quietly follows the trail, for one falls on Draco, and another on Avery. Hermione speaks seriously, in a tone that appears low and curious.
Draco abruptly stands up, roaming around his bag for a book. Pansy snorts, eyebrow high in glee. "Draco darling, what is that old rusty book for? I swear you have already read it a thousand times." He only sighs, and gives her a peevish look before standing from his seat.
"For Granger," He says after a while, and continues immediately; "I'd rather face a worthy opponent than win against a disarmed witch."
As Draco finishes talking, Pansy and Blaise are bursting out laughing, face-planted on the table. Pansy giggles, hardly capable of talking with that little air. "I wonder how many words are you able to use to avoid calling one your friend."
"Hey Draco," Blaise interrupts with a much more serious tone. "Do you mind if I give her the book myself?"
The stare he gets from Draco is surprised, and perhaps a tad irked. Nonetheless, he bestows 'The Origins and the Deeds of the Goths' without complaint. Blaise smiles at him, and then immediately walks to the Gryffindors' table. Hermione salutes him politely with a nod, as he takes place beside Weasley —and if ever his elbow did smack the ginger's ribs, well then, oops. There he sits then, in front of Potter, and between the two lovers, Draco would have been jealous certainly.
"What do you want?" snarls Ron, without making an ounce of effort to hide his discontentment.
Blaise offers the voluminous book to the girl, before claiming, "Why offering a book, obviously."
"Draco's, I suppose," she adds as she reads the title. "Though, I don't suppose you wish to expand on ancient Estonian runes."
The Slytherin solely grins, eyes beaming with glee. "You might be surprised. Each Slytherin knows about the first few pages. I encourage you to start your reading early."
Hermione seems to catch the underlying meaning, for she opens the book carefully, and as her eyes read the lines written there, they gradually lose all prior excitement. Ron knows that face, she made the same every time they had to flee, and every time they had to fight. He isn't sure how this is all related to some class subject. "Sure, they are indeed interesting," she says while closing the book. "I'm open to further discussions regarding those runes."
"Perfect then," the Slytherin concludes, standing up once again, and calmly regaining his seat. He counts mere seconds before both boys jump at Granger, begging her to at least explain half of the situation.
Blaise chuckles as he falls back into Pansy's and Draco's dramatic conversations. McGonagall would be very proud, for inter-unity houses might just be able to defeat danger this time around.