27. Tacking on Malfoy

Eight and Eighth—Chapter 27—Tacking on Malfoy

There was no one good place in Hogwarts where someone could go to take a nap without fear of being found by an enemy and hexed into a cube, apparently. Draco'd looked. If it were warmer out, he might try a nice nap under a tree—one besides the Whomping Willow. If his fellow Slytherins hadn't turned on him when his power (of any definition) had been taken away, he could have perhaps slipped into his old common room in the dungeons and taken a snooze on his favorite black chaise lounge. If he'd been taking History of Magic, that would have been a guaranteed hour of undisturbed sleep, the gentle drone of Binns' lecture serving as a lullaby.

The only truly safe place he could think of was the Hospital Wing, but unfortunately Madam Pomfrey had a strict "You must be ill, petrified, maimed, or otherwise impaired" policy, and he didn't think she'd let him stay there in order to prevent him from being maimed in his sleep.

In short, Draco was sleepy.

And so, the rest of February passed by in a blur of Weasley-dodging, awkward dating, Ribbon-the-gossip-columnist's-daughter-loathing, and that thing called schoolwork.

O

Ginny was staring at her, and not very discretely, either. Hermione felt just a little bit uncomfortable as she chopped up the slimy red growth that might be called a mandrake heart if mandrakes actually had circulatory systems. Ginny was at the next table with Ron and Harry, as usual. But Hermione… Hermione was next to Malfoy, as per the new usual. The divide of the aisle was a literal one and, unfortunately, a figurative one as well.

Malfoy—Draco—whatever she was supposed to call him now—was half-slumped over his cauldron, stirring with the fervor of someone with very little fervor. Honestly, he looked like he was about one second from falling asleep with his head in his cauldron. Inadvisable.

It wasn't that Harry or Ginny had abandoned her or that she had abandoned them. Things were just… awkward. Like right then. With Ginny staring. She continued chopping, trying to get the exact diagonal cut described in her potions book.

Candanver actually had a sleep mask on to block out the light, not that there was an especially large amount of light in the dungeons in the first place, and he had his head on a pillow resting on his desk.

She could certainly see McGonagall's reasoning behind sacking him. Considering Dumbledore had had to drag Slughorn out of retirement to get him to take the Potions position, it actually made some sense why McGonagall had hired Candanver and why she was even considering Malfoy as a replacement. The Potions position must have been nearly as difficult to hire for as the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. Which was why Hermione felt the extra urge to give herself a pat on the back for being offered the more competitive position available.

A small smile tugged at her lips at that thought: Professor Hermione Jean Granger, Transfiguration Professor and successor to Headmistress Minerva McGonagall.

Malfoy's free hand settled onto her knee, his other hand still stirring in a lazy ark around his pewter cauldron.

Professor Hermione Jean Malfoy, Transfiguration Profess—

Her knife slipped, the diagonal chop going in the completely wrong direction, and it took her a quarter second to right the handle. Her eyes flashed to Ginny, wondering if the other girl had noticed her slip-up, but the Head Girl had turned away to dig through her book bag. On Hermione's other side, Malfoy's eyelids were drooping.

This was natural. This was completely natural. They were dating. What girl didn't replace her own surname with that of her boyfriend at least once just to give it a go in her head and see if it sounded nice or not? She'd certainly mused over Hermione Jean Weasley enough times in the past. She'd even substituted Finnegan into her name once, not that that particular crush had lasted more than five minutes after a disturbing dream involving Seamus serenading her while wearing an outfit completely made out of pages from the encyclopedia.

She'd once overheard Lavender and Parvati randomly pairing off their own first names with that of every single male in the school, including Flitwick (to many giggles). Surely just because the name Parvati Flitwick had once been uttered didn't mean anything, so why should this?

Her brain was beginning to hurt.

It wasn't a completely awful name by any means, at least syllabically, though there was a certain trippiness between the M in her name and the M in his. She couldn't say she cared for the fact that Malfoy meant "bad faith" whatsoever, nor could she really push all of the connotations of the name out of sight and out of mind. She couldn't even bring herself to call him by his first name, after all, and so his surname was just so very him.

That him was her boyfriend. She kept forgetting that.

His hand was petting her knee just as lazily as he was stirring, as per the laws of "tummy rub, head pat." She couldn't quite conjure up an image of him doing the same for Pansy back when they'd been an item. She had a hard enough time reconciling with the fact that he seemed capable of sweetness of any measure.

He stopped stirring. "About bloody time," he muttered, removing his spoon. "Wake me if he wakes up." He put out the flame beneath his cauldron, folded one arm onto the tabletop, and sunk his forehead into his elbow, his other hand still resting complacently on her knee.

Ron glanced over, his expression almost unreadable, and Hermione felt herself stiffen. She had this funny little itch in her fingertips to reach over and comb them through the soft blond hairs at the back of Malfoy's head. Just putting her head on his shoulder sounded pretty appealing at the moment too. Just something… calming. Something to let her know that this decision she'd made had been based on something. That all this was worth it.

Malfoy's hand moved from her knee to her upper thigh, and she scooped up his wrist and replaced it on her knee.

She could have sworn a smirk peeked out from the little bit of his mouth that was still visible.

O

His mother, apparently, had not heard the news. Whether it was by chance, miracle, or simply because the Ministry had made it especially difficult for her to communicate with the outside world without having to file official requests—and, coincidentally, she was having almost as much difficulty getting old acquaintances to pay her any attention as Draco was—he didn't know.

But his mother definitely did not know, if her latest letter were anything to go by.

He'd assumed, falsely, that she'd either hear it through the mystical grapevine or read it in Witch Weekly, and that he would get an aghast letter from her asking if the rumors were true. Instead, he'd gotten a dull letter about how she'd rearranged the furniture in the third floor drawing room.

It had been over two weeks. There was an unwritten code somewhere that said he was supposed to tell her if he suddenly started dating outside of his pedigree—strike that, there was an unwritten code that said he was supposed to tell her if he started dating anyone. That wasn't to say he told his mother everything. Hardly. But this wasn't the sort of thing she'd appreciate learning four months or so after the fact when the grapevine finally caught up with her.

Which led him to the interesting question of how exactly one does go about telling one's mother that one has aligned oneself romantically with Harry Potter's muggle-born best friend with all that "wild, floofy hair." (His mother's description after the World Cup.)

He wasn't sure a letter (or a Witch Weekly clipping) was going to cut it.

His forehead fell onto his crossed arms, which were resting on a tabletop in the library. Granger'd momentarily abandoned him to go to the loo. Now that his head was down, he found himself not wanting to lift it again. His brain was in an utter funk. He hadn't heard the reassuring sound of Weasley's snores until nearly three in the morning, and then he'd had to go about sleeping through those snores. Weasley's next match couldn't come any sooner, in Draco's opinion.

The sound of footsteps was followed by the sound of a chair being drawn out beside him. "You sure you wouldn't rather go back to the common room?" he asked, not bothering to raise his head to make his words less muffled.

"Is that an invitation? Mine or yours?" His head sprang up. Astoria Greengrass was occupying Granger's chair, stretched out comfortably in a decadent slouch—an oxymoron only a Slytherin could truly appreciate.

"You again," he groaned. "Determined little thing, aren't you?"

She smiled coyly. "Of course. Niceties aside, how are things with the little miss? Is she everything you've dreamed of and more?"

He yawned. "You're stalkerishly observant; you tell me."

"Unfortunately, I haven't perfected my method of spying on dreams." He was marginally sure she was kidding about that.

"Considering I was nearly asleep a minute ago, that's almost reassuring. Now, if you don't mind the Pig Latin, amscray."

"I don't think so." Her eyes flickered to something below her, and she bent forward, her fingers stretching gingerly to snatch up a small piece of parchment from Granger's book bag.

"Hey!" he began, scrambling to take it away from her, but one little prod of her wand in his direction had him backing off, scowling at her. He hated feeling like such a vulnerable coward all of the time, not even able to defend his girlfriend's scratch paper.

She sniffed. "That's better." Her eyes flicked to the parchment, and for a moment her expression was utterly neutral until one little tug at the corner of her mouth had her smirking like, well, him. "Oh, this is rich." She laughed lightly, her eyes flitting back and forth between him and the parchment. "It's about you," she said saccharinely. "Would you like to know what it says?"

Draco's mouth went strangely dry as he eyed the little slip of paper. Did he want to know what it said? Unconsciously, he found himself redirecting his gaze to the library door, where Granger was due to reappear at any moment.

Left side of the scale: Sudden and abject burning curiosity.

Right side of the scale: Granger finding out he'd gone through her things, even if Greengrass was the one who was technically at fault.

"What's the matter? Conscience actually plaguing you?" Greengrass asked. "You really have gotten soft. Can't even read an itty bitty note." She grinned. "Well then, no matter. I don't have that problem. Ahem," her eyes returned to the note, "Professor Hermione Jean—"

"What are you doing?" Granger stood before them, wand out and hands on her hips, scowling. Luckily, her glare seemed to be directed at Astoria, not him. For the moment, anyway.

Greengrass's smirk returned. "Practicing your signature? It's very nice, though I think you should make that Y a little more loopy." With that, she dropped the parchment, stretched, and left, not stopping to listen as Granger called out a point reduction at her.

There was a brief pause before Granger turned around again, her hand darting out to grab the parchment before he could catch a glimpse at it. There were identical patches of pink on either of her cheeks. "Did you have anything to do with this?"

He shook his head mutely. Her glare had been redirected, and it was the tiniest bit scary. "Trust me, she was acting on her own."

Granger nodded, her fingers flexing around the parchment in her hand. A Y? There was no Y in her name, not unless she had a second middle name.

But—his thought stopped as if hit by a train. Greengrass had said the note was about him, hadn't she? And that Granger'd been practicing her signature? Unless she planned to rename herself Grangery, then….

She'd practiced writing her name? With Malfoy tacked on?

"How… how old is that?" he asked, gesturing helplessly. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe it said Weasley—that was one of the few common traits he'd openly admit to sharing with the git, that common Y at the ends of their names.

Why was he trying to imagine her note saying Weasley?

Her voice dripped with suspicion. "Why do you ask?"

"Why are you asking why I'm asking?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Draco," she warned. And just like that, her eyes popped open wider, the glare vanishing as her surprise took over.

"Did you just call me…?" he began, honestly thankful for any excuse to change the subject, even if the subject had merely been changed from his last name to his first.

"I… yes." She looked slightly dumbstruck.

He felt a smile creeping onto his face. "You like me," he declared quietly, feeling oddly triumphant.

She raised an eyebrow, though not quite as well as he typically raised his own. "You think?" she asked sarcastically.

He stood to walk around the table to stand in front of her. "I know."

O

His index finger rose to dip delicately below her chin and up, until it was just at the crest, and he tilted her head up. "Well, how about that?" he asked, and the way he was looking at her made her involuntarily stiffen. He frowned. "Something wrong?"

That depended on his definition of wrong. "We're in the library."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning," she took a breath, feeling suddenly nervous, "that if you're going to do what I think you're going to do, I think it should be elsewhere." Heaven help her. There was something very peculiar about giving Draco Malfoy permission to snog her.

"Well, then," he turned to gather up their things and offered her an arm, "shall we?" He had a twinkle in his eye that would have rivaled Dumbledore's. He led her from the library out into the corridor, and then he paused, frowning. "Confession: no clue where to go."

She paused, quickly running through possible spots where they could have some privacy. An empty classroom? She hated disrespecting the sanctity of the learning environment. A broom closet? Certainly not. The Astronomy Tower? Filch guarded that area with his life. The Owlery? Far too dirty. The common room? Too public. The grounds?

The grounds were acceptable. Just cold.

"I suppose the common room," she said, failing to think of anywhere else other than a completely random corridor.

He nodded in agreement, looking slightly antsy. Ron had been watching them far too often, rarely giving them any real chance to be alone.

An idea suddenly occurred to her. "Come on," she said, and they made their way to the stone statue of Merlin before giving the password and going in. The room was empty for the moment. "Stay here; I'll be back," she mumbled, going down the spiral staircase. She hesitated a moment before turning the door knob into the girls' dormitory. Sure enough, August was sitting on her bed, doing a magical crossword puzzle, which rearranged itself every few minutes.

Well, here goes nothing. "Um, August?"

The other girl lifted her head to look at her. "Yeah?"

"I was wondering," Hermione began. "Do you think that maybe you could, um, distract Ron for awhile?"

August's brows furrowed. "Why?"

"Well," this idea of hers was starting to make her feel very awkward, "it's just that he…."

"Keeps showing up and glaring at you?" August suggested.

"That's about right."

August groaned. "Look, I'm happy for you and blondie, but I don't think you realize how awful this whole situation is for me. Ron is my boyfriend, and watching him get jealous like this hurts. Most girls in my situation would be seriously angry with you right now. I may have risen above that, but… if the situation were reversed, would you do that for me? If, say, I'd dated Malfoy and he were jealous of Ron?"

"You what?" Padma asked, pushing past Hermione into the room.

"Nothing," August grunted, and she waited a moment for Padma to roll her eyes. "Well, would you? Knowing he was thinking of another girl the whole time you're 'distracting' him?"

"I… guess not." Hermione sighed. "I'm sorry about this, you know."

August nodded. "I know."

Hermione left, going back up the stairs to where Malfoy sat on the couch. "Maybe a locking charm?" he suggested, looking hopeful. He patted the cushion next to him, and she reluctantly sat down, biting her lip.

He frowned then. "You don't want to now, do you?" he asked, reading the silent look on her face.

"Not really," she admitted.

He leaned his head back. "Too much planning spoiled the mood." He yawned. "I think I'm in for a nap, anyway." She watched as his head slid down to the armrest. "Don't worry, though," he said, sounding about half a minute from REM sleep, "someday we'll have plenty of privacy." A smirk curled at the corner of his lips. "When we're the professors Malfoy," he added teasingly.

Hermione's mouth hung open. So he had figured out what that idiotic piece of scratch paper had said. She was about to berate him, tell him that it wasn't anything to get worked up about—that it was just a normal thing that girls do and that he wasn't meant to have ever, ever known about it—but a light snore stopped her.

He looked so peaceful, just leaning there asleep. Whatever she felt about him, which she really couldn't say with any certainty, she did know there was one thing she wouldn't mind doing, and so she did. She dropped her head onto his shoulder, soaking in the warm comfort.

O

A.N. The last scene of this chapter was threatening to drive me insane, and I'm still not totally satisfied. I'm blaming that and a horrific amount of homework for the delay in updating.