Hate you
“That is not what Professor Vector meant, and you know it!” Hermione snarled, slamming her hands down on top of the desk so hard their ink bottles threatened to fall off.
It was with quick reflexes that Malfoy snatched them away from the edge and slid them back to safety. For what had to be the millionth time that term, Hermione hated herself for appreciating anything about the blonde git.
Why, oh, why, did he have to be her partner in Advanced Arithmancy?
She cursed her duties as Head Girl and the rest of their classmates for leaving the seat next to Malfoy open when she came waltzing into the room late. She had no choice but to sit next to him on that first day.
She couldn’t just say no when Professor Vector announced their seat mates would be their partners for the rest of the school term. Hermione had an example to set. She not only had to put forward the first foot towards inter-house unity, she also knew how important it was to show others that forgiveness was a living, breathing thing.
She couldn’t just preach the gospel of healing post-war; she had to live it.
So, she accepted the assignment without complaint.
She’d nodded at the announcement as if it was only natural that she partner with the boy who’d bullied her since childhood, who’d taught her all about blood purity, who’d let murderers into their school, who’d seen her scream and bleed, and who had now returned along with scant few others to re-do their final year.
She hated him. She also pitied him. More importantly, she hated him.
Today, he’d had the nerve to try and correct her part of their current project.
He took a deep breath before replying. “You can’t just assume that Scranton’s Formula applies in this instance. There are additional variable to consider—”
“I am not assuming!” she protested. “Scranton fits too perfectly to not be correct and whatever ‘other variables’ might exist don’t matter when the answer is obvious.”
She knew she was right. She couldn’t not be right, particularly with Malfoy thinking otherwise.
“Does that mean you’re already aware of Livingston’s Theorem?”
Hermione sputtered at the term, “Of course I’m aware of it! Livingston is not applicable here, or anywhere, really—”
“Why not?” Malfoy sat down and she absolutely hated that he did. It was like he expected their argument to take a long time.
“Livingston was a quack! Anyone who takes Divination into account like he does obviously knows nothing worth my time.” She refused to sit. She was right and there was nothing else to discuss.
“You are aware Arithmancy and Divination are related fields, right?” he pressed.
“They were such that Arithmancy evolved to include actual facts and data, rendering Divination completely useless.” She’d concede at least that much.
The few students still remaining behind in the classroom looked warily over at them almost like they were worried the two would break into a fight. Hermione wanted to roll her eyes at their unnecessary concern.
“Why don’t we both submit our findings and we’ll allow Vector to decide who’s correct?” Malfoy suggested.
“Professor Vector.”
He looked amused at her correction, and it was that smug twitch of his lips that sent Hermione over the edge.
“God, I hate you,” she muttered.
All traces of a smile faded from his face, replaced with a grimace that vanished nearly as quickly as it had appeared. Hermione had the distinct feeling she was looking at a mask that only pretended to be Draco Malfoy.
“You’re welcome to write whatever you want, Granger. I’ll still include my own research and we can make it clear that our opinions and findings differ. Professor Vector should appreciate the additional viewpoints even if I’m wrong,” he said stiffly.
Before Hermione could respond, he gathered his belongings and walked away.
Hermione didn’t think she owed him an apology for snapping at him as she had, but she did feel a little hollow at the way he’d just taken it. Their arguments always seemed to end that way—she’d inevitably get so wound up that she’d say something cutting, something true, and he’d just…accept.
She wanted to feel satisfaction at turning the tables on the git, but instead all she felt was a lingering sense of incompleteness. Did she want to keep punishing him? Did she resent his presence at Hogwarts? Did she regret testifying for him?
No. Her answer to all three was ‘no’.
So then why did she keep acting the way she did towards him?
“I hate him,” she repeated quietly.
As she walked towards the doorway, she paused by the bookshelf lining the wall. In a moss green cover, title glinting silver, was Walter Livingston’s Reinterpretations on Arithmancy. She stared at it, chewing her lip, mind rapidly rehashing the details of her research.
She sighed and slid the book into her bag.