Complexities

By Bambu

Challenge Specifications: Pairing has to be D/Hr, B/Hr, or D/Hr/B; 1,000 word minimum, the mandatory quote ‘to save time, let’s just assume I know everything,’ a secret admirer, an embarrassing moment, someone marking a calendar, a candlelit garden, and at least three of a miscellany of characters (I’ve chosen Zacharias Smith, Nymphadora Tonks, Millicent Bulstrode, and Bill Weasley)

Author’s Notes:  This is my first attempt at a Draco/Hermione story, but they’re a fascinating dynamic, and the Spring Fling Challenge was too enticing an invitation to pass up.  There are a number of superb D/Hr writers in the fandom, but I wanted to invite Draco and Hermione to play in my head a bit… and this just leaked out the tips of my fingers and ran away with my imagination.

Please note that I’ve relied heavily on the HP Lexicon and Notre Dame University’s Latin-to-English Dictionary.  A list of the invented spells for this piece follow, separately.  I’ve made a reference in chapter 8 to the musical ‘Gigi,’ in case anyone should recognize it.  It’s a tribute to my beloved Dad who introduced me to musicals at an early age.  I just couldn’t resist another little tribute, this time to Disney’s Sword in the Stone, in the name of Draco’s owl.

My inspiration for Malfoy Manor, since we don’t have anything remotely like a National Trust Estate where I live, is Boughton Monchelsea Place which I discovered on the internet, and it helped me focus my imagination. (http://www.boughtonmonchelseaplace.co.uk/slideshow.htm )

I’ve also made mention of Lyme Park, which was the site of Pemberley in the A&E mini-series, ‘Pride and Prejudice.’  Here’s a link for anyone who’s never seen the magnificent property (http://www.cressbrook.co.uk/features/lymehall/ )

And a final note… thanks to SnarkyWench for holding my hand, and her keen eye in catching my mistakes which are, regrettably, legion.  Also to my Shy little friend in Sweden (get well soon), and all at IATQO who have been remarkably welcoming for my first attempts in this ship.

~o0o~

Chapter One:  Entrenched Encounters

“Aww, Granger, are you tracing a red heart around the date?”  Draco Malfoy’s patrician speech was admirably suited to his favorite pastime, taunting Hermione Granger.  “Look, a little red circle around the fourteenth, how charming.  Is it some quaint Muggle custom… marking the calendar on Valentine’s Day?” 

The blond heir of the currently worthless Malfoy fortune dropped into his chair at the Hogwarts staff table, conveniently next to his recently appointed colleague, and tugged the book away from her fingers.

Hermione was mortified.  There was no power on earth outside of Veritaserum or the Imperius curse that would entice her into revealing the meaning behind the small, monthly red circle in her calendar.  Certainly not in the Great Hall of Hogwarts where students were straggling in to find breakfast before the festivities of the day would begin in earnest.  Casting a glance at the red, heart-shaped balloons floating in the dome of the charmed-ceiling’s fresco of clear blue sky, Hermione was certain that her cheeks were the same shade as the balloons.  

Seeing the flush rise in her cheeks, spreading to her graceful neck, Draco grinned with pleasure, and tossed his blond mane over his shoulder.  He’d gotten to Hermione.  The former Slytherin Head Boy flipped the pages of her academic-year calendar as he watched her slender fingers twitch with the desire to rip the bound volume from his hands.  But he knew she wouldn’t openly display such hostility in front of the students. 

Draco chuckled as he studied the pages.  The months were filled with her small, copperplate printing.  Of most interest to the Potions Apprentice was the variegated blotches of colour highlighting certain dates.  Every third Saturday for each month since September was circled in green, and then the ubiquitous red circle made its appearance on a roughly monthly basis as well.  His curiosity was piqued, and he noticed a golden ‘x’ marked through three dates:  September 1, September 19, and Christmas.

“Merlin, Granger, don’t tell me that green is for Saint Potter and red is for the Weasel?  I can’t believe that you colour-code your calendar.  On second thought, I can.  It’s just like you to be a swot in everything.  Are the golden crosses dates you’ve gotten shagged… oh, wait, you’re probably still a virgin.  Not to worry, I’m sure the Weasel will wake up some day and remember that you’re a woman.  It might be too late by then, you’ll probably be as old as Minerva, but better late than never, I suppose.”  With a smirk, Draco leaned back and waited for the explosion.  She never failed to meet his expectations. 

This time he would be disappointed.

Standing abruptly, Hermione’s eyes glittered with what a perceptive person would realize were unshed tears, but were lost in Draco’s enthusiasm for their perennial game, one that she’d long ceased to enjoy.  Her lower lip was held so tightly between the rows of her teeth that it seemed almost bloodless.  She wrenched her book from his hands and spun on her heels to leave, refusing to speak to him. 

Draco’s expectant grin began to fade with her unaccustomed failure to rise to the challenge. 

Her hasty movements had drawn the eyes of the few students seated at the long House tables.  The Hogwarts rumor mill was always ripe for a morsel to grind until all life had been crushed under the enthusiasm of hungry adolescent curiosity.  Hermione tilted her chin and averted her eyes, not wanting to give Draco tinder for the fire of his amusement.  She would not look at the slightly befuddled grey eyes of the egotistic bane of her existence.  

The unexpected arrival of an early owl, bearing a small, gilt-wrapped box halted Hermione’s rather dramatic exit from the Great Hall.  Since she’d received a similar gift on each of the ‘x’-marked dates in her calendar, she surmised that this package, too, was for her.  The brunette witch sat back down, regretting once again the perversity of the Headmaster’s whim that had assigned her a seat next to Malfoy, and gave the delivery owl some of her rashers.  It nibbled her fingers gently in a gesture of thanks, and took flight.  

For a long moment, Hermione watched the silent strokes of the owl’s golden-tipped wings, struggling to regain her composure.  No one could get to her like Draco Malfoy.  It had been the case since the first time he’d called her Mudblood a decade before.  He’d derived such malicious pleasure at humiliating her that she’d learned to harden her heart over the years.  She had a wound for each taunt, each hurled insult that he’d relished until the scar tissue was quite thick.  The Gryffindor witch had thought that he’d change after school and the war had ended, believing in it so strongly that she’d tentatively offered a truce.  It had worked with other Slytherins, why not Draco?  The handsome blond had taken one measuring, insolent look at her, and, as ever, had found exactly the right words to shred her dignity and wriggle their way into the living, breathing soul that was far too sensitive for her own good.   

That had been September 1, the morning after she’d arrived at Hogwarts to assume her position as an Apprentice to the Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor, the only professor in that position to have lasted for more than a year.  Over the ensuing months, Draco had appeared to relax his campaign of belittlement into occasional flare-ups, and they’d seemed to reach a fairly peaceful détente.  Hermione had taken heart from the apparent change… until today.

And today was not a good day for his brand of affection.  Hermione really would have to see Madam Pomfrey directly after breakfast for the menstrual version of the Draught of Peace.  The young witch’s head throbbed with an impending migraine, brought on no doubt by the Slytherin prat’s offhanded cruelty.  She wondered whether Draco even listened to the words that flowed so trippingly off his tongue on those occasions that he chose to verbally lacerate her.  Closing her eyes for a moment, she took a calming breath and knew she’d have to find Madam Pomfrey soon.  The mediwitch kept a plentiful stock of the potions Hermione needed on hand.  A castle full of adolescent witches-in-training was a disaster waiting to happen without recourse to such effective, monthly remedies.  

With a deep, cleansing breath, Hermione ignored her cramps and her headache, tossed her hair from her eyes and assessed her package.  This would mark the second year in a row that she’d received a gold-wrapped package on Valentine’s Day.  It matched the other gifts sent on her birthday and at Christmas.  This past September, she’d received the very calendar Draco had been teasing her about.  Each one of the presents had been wrapped in the same distinctive gold paper.

Not wanting to make a scene at the High Table, Hermione kept a tight rein on her temper, and thought about the fact that she would be demonstrating personal hexes during the morning DADA class, a mixed Hufflepuff/Ravenclaw group of First Years.  It was an easy class, the Hufflepuffs reveling in the fact that their Professor was a former Hufflepuff.  Zacharias Smith had been in Hermione’s year at school, and was a former member of Dumbledore’s Army.  He’d acquitted himself nobly in the Death Eater skirmish the day of their Graduation from Hogwarts.  Unfortunately, he’d been permanently wounded as a result.  Dumbledore had offered him the post at Hogwarts when Smith’s ambition to become an Auror had been cut short by the Diffindo which severed his Achilles tendon.  Even in the Wizarding world, an Achilles injury caused permanent impairment.  There remained a slight hesitation in his gait, but other than his dashed hopes, the stocky wizard had recovered entirely from the vicious hex Walden McNair had sent his way.  Smith had become the youngest professor in Hogwarts history, next to Severus Snape, and his ‘war wound’ gave him a certain cachet with the students. 

Hermione found Smith a bit abrasive and slightly unsettling.  Occasionally she’d felt nebulous prickles of unease when in his presence, which was why she remained slightly aloof.  She remembered how little she’d liked him when they were at school.  His natural skepticism still sprouted on occasion, but the young witch had been able to work with him unflinchingly.  Besides, after years of being Draco’s favorite target, she was immune to lesser forms of vitriol.  Hermione was, however, looking forward to the following year when she would assume the vacated Charms Apprenticeship in preparation to step into Filius Flitwick’s shoes when the diminutive Professor retired. 

Hermione’s original ambition -- which had been strengthened by the death of her nuclear family the summer between her fifth and sixth years at Hogwarts -- had been to take up Auror training after graduation.  After two years of training and vicious clashes with the increasingly bold Death Eaters, Hermione had stood shoulder-to-shoulder with her best friends in the horrendously terrifying Final Battle.  It had cured her desire for a career in Magical Law Enforcement.  During the short few months that Hermione spent casting around for a new career path, Minerva McGonagall and Severus Snape – still rather acerbic, but more fair then during his years acting as a spy -- banded together to entice her into teaching.  The two friendly adversaries knew that Olympe Maxime had been seen wining and dining the former Hogwarts Valedictorian, and they were not about to lose their prize to the competition.  Beauxbatons would need to find another, less-qualified junior professor.  They were keeping their own. 

Hermione’s fast-track advancement to the Charms professorship was one of the bones of contention between Draco and her.  The former Head Boy had already been entrenched at Hogwarts for a year before his academic nemesis’ arrival.  After the annoying Boy Who Lived had lived again, Draco’s family assets had been frozen pending a Ministry investigation into the legitimacy of the family’s income.  With Lucius Malfoy serving a life sentence in Azkaban, and Narcissa Malfoy dead at the hands of her sister for refusing to force Draco to take the Dark Mark, the Malfoy heir had needed to find a suitable situation.  No one in a position of seniority at the Ministry had even been willing to meet with him, and he’d been shunted from low-level minion to minion until, in a burst of compassion, Arthur Weasley had offered him a post in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office.  

Draco had been so humiliated by the fact that his livelihood might be dependent upon a Weasley’s goodwill, that he’d stiffly thanked the thin, redheaded Muggle enthusiast and left the Ministry to find the nearest pub.  Half a bottle of Ogden’s Finest later and he’d been on a first-name basis with the toothpicks he was blasting to sawdust.  McGonagall had seen her former student as she was passing through the Leaky Cauldron, and she’d figuratively taken him under her wing.  He’d returned to Hogwarts with her, via the Floo network – nobody that drunk should ever Apparate -- and somehow he’d never left.

The fact that the former know-it-all of the Dream Team had waltzed into the castle with an open invitation to the next available professorship simply chafed Draco’s recently deflated ego.  The one-time Prince of Slytherin conveniently ignored the fact that he wasn’t interested in teaching or that Hermione had offered to bury their juvenile past when she’d arrived, and continued to do so, on a monthly basis.  Perchance that was written in her little schedule, he thought derisively, ‘offer Draco a friendly hand on alternate Tuesdays.’  He didn’t like the idea that he could be relegated to such an insignificant status by anyone, let alone the Muggleborn witch.  Hermione’s presence at Hogwarts had left the grey-eyed wizard feeling slighted, regardless of how soon Dumbledore could maneuver the Wizengamot into reviewing his case and returning his inheritance to his control.  That wasn’t the point.  Hermione Granger had bested him… again.  It irked him in the way that one will run their tongue over a broken tooth -- no matter that the edges are sharp and cutting – verifying that it’s still there and still painful. 

Since September, teasing Hermione had become the highlight of Draco’s days.  He was usually fairly subtle, but he hadn’t spurred her into a righteous fury in some time, and he’d missed watching her in action.  Her brown eyes would flash with fire and her cheeks would heat, sometimes her lips would tremble in her outrage.  His favorite image was when she’d tilt her chin in defiance.  Perhaps today would be one of those days. 

Draco had finished his meal, but he leaned indolently back on his carved chair and watched her quietly open her gift.  The fact that she hadn’t risen to his baiting that morning left him unsettled; besides he was intrigued by her gift.  He wondered who it was from.  She received them on occasion.  They were probably from Weasley or Potter.  The twist in his gut at the thought of the trio’s closeness was a familiar twinge which he ignored.  Her nimble fingers wrestled with the spellotape Merlin forbid that she should rip the paper like any normal witch. 

Hermione could rile Draco quicker than it took to draw breath, and he loathed that fact.  Narrowing his eyes, he really looked at her, ready to find fault.  The woman seated next to him was a far cry from the Gryffindor swot he remembered at school, and yet she was still the same.  Her hair was the most drastic change in her appearance.  The frizzy bush had been cut – initially she’d done it in accordance with Auror regulations, later because it was easier to care for -- and shaped into a caplet of curls that framed her piquant face.  She’d grown taller since she’d left school, but he could still tuck her under his chin if he was ever to be so inclined.  Hermione had no idea that, with her lively brown eyes and the sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose, she was adorable.  Her appeal was entirely subconscious.  She’d grown so used to being the know-it-all of the Golden Trio, and focusing her attentions on keeping herself and her closest friends alive, that her emergence as a woman had been lost along the way.  Draco was convinced that half of the faculty and fully a third of the student body were crushing on her... and it irked him.  It was even more infuriating that she hadn’t a clue.  The last of the Malfoys ground his teeth together… he’d be buggered before he’d join their club.

Hermione’s small gasp drew his attention to the box in her hands.  She’d opened it, and carefully lifted out a miniature, beautifully formed, crystal vase with a perfectly proportioned crystalline rosebud.  The tips of the budded flower were slightly tinted a deep crimson, and the entire thing sparkled, sending rainbows to dance along the distant walls of the Great Hall.  It was delicate and very beautiful. 

Draco hated it.  He hated the way her hands held it so gently.  He hated the soft smile on her mouth.  And so, in the manner of misery loving company, he had to do something.

He snatched the gift card from the wrapping paper and, in the most sneering tone he could dredge up through his unusually tight throat, he spoke loudly enough to be heard by the students nearest to the dais.  “Oi, Granger, aren’t you special.  Listen to this, ‘Will you be my Valentine, Hermione?  Love, a Secret Admirer.’ That’s rich.  Whoever is sending you this is a coward.  They won’t even sign their own name.  Couldn’t they even get you real flowers?  Not that you deserve flowers.  Maybe you sent it to yourself.”

Before he could continue to deride her gift further, Hermione quickly repacked the small vase with shaking hands, and turned toward Draco.  Her eyes were glistening and her chin was trembling.  It wasn’t in anger.  “Don’t, Malfoy… just don’t.” 

Hermione rose and vanished through the staff door.  Her sapphire teaching robes billowed in a manner that would have done the Potions Master proud.

Draco was left feeling distinctly like he’d just destroyed something he didn’t understand.  It made him livid.

“Aren’t you a right git, Malfoy?”

Draco whipped his head around to see an annoyed Zacharias Smith arriving for breakfast and, following close behind the DADA Professor, the glowering Head of Slytherin, the bat of the dungeons himself.  Snape’s long black hair screened his face from most, but Draco could see it clearly.  Was that disappointment in his mentor’s eyes?  Uncomfortable with that thought, Draco looked at Smith.  He’d never before given the Hufflepuff a real thought, certainly not as an adversary worthy of the name.  Draco was aware, quite suddenly, that Smith had been surprisingly competent on the battlefield and the look the DADA professor was currently shooting his way was anything but friendly.  Exasperated beyond measure, and not comprehending the reason he felt so out of sorts, Draco burst out, “For Merlin’s sake, not the two of you, as well.” 

The well-favored Slytherin stormed from the Great Hall, making a beeline for the soothing cool of the dungeons and the research lab.  His booted heels struck sparks from the broad flagstones, his passage was so forceful.   

Albus Dumbledore stopped Draco in the foyer, “Ah, Mr. Malfoy, a moment if you will.”

The aged wizard had been magically drained to the point of death after the Final Battle, and it had taken a full year for him to regain his strength.  But even at close to one-hundred-sixty years of age, he had a commanding presence when he chose, despite wearing magenta robes.  Draco had learned the fallacy of his father’s assessment of the aged wizard while he was still a student, and had held a healthy respect for the Headmaster since.  He’d always enjoyed the twinkle he believed that Dumbledore kept especially for him.  It was noticeably lacking this morning.

Briefly, Draco wondered what could be wrong; dread curled itself around his guts, and he swiftly reached Dumbledore.

“Draco, I wonder if you could explain why Miss Granger would be so eager to intercept an owl delivering mail to you.” 

In his gnarled hands, Dumbledore held a large red envelope, and, from his vantage point, Draco could see the neat, copperplate script curving into the letters of his name.  He recognized the handwriting.  He’d just been scouring through months’ worth of notes in that cursive, and making fun of the witch whose hand had written them. 

A cold sense of foreboding rushed to meet the sick certainty rising from his guts, and Draco hesitantly accepted the envelope from the unsmiling older wizard.  Ripping the red parchment to extract a Muggle card, Draco was taken aback by the simple beauty of the black-and-white still life.  A single half-opened rosebud contrasted with the raised, whorled and ridged plank of wood upon which it rested.  He recognized the work.  How had she discovered his interest in the photography of the Muggle photographer – a Yank no less – Ansel Adams.  It was one of Draco’s favorite photographs.  With stiff fingers, he opened the card to read the sentiment:  ‘Happy Valentine’s Day, Draco.’ 

Hermione Granger had sent him a Valentine’s Day card.

An odd feeling tightened his chest, and he didn’t think he could draw a full breath.  He couldn’t look the Headmaster in the eye, and with a curt nod and a brief, “I have no idea, Albus,” he took his leave.

He was seething with anger and something else.  How dare she do this to him?  How dare she change the rules?  That was his job.

Two weeks went by during which Hermione spoke not a single word to her grey-eyed colleague.  She sat at the staff table during meals, arriving early and departing quickly.  She spoke animatedly with her neighbor, Professor Sprout, and any other staff member who stopped to chat, but ignored the increasingly sulky blond seated on her right.  He hated not getting a reaction out of her.  At first, Draco had been angry when she hadn’t responded to any of his ripostes, or insults… and he had tried.  He needed her to react to him.  When all else in his life seemed to ready to crush him -- living with the repercussions of his decision to support Dumbledore in the Voldemort War after the death of his dearly loved mother, the humiliation of his father’s incarceration and his own seemingly penniless state -- teasing Hermione had been a reliable touchstone, a way to remind him that he mattered to someone.  It was a familiar ritual.  He insulted her… she sputtered in righteous indignation, and, occasionally, erupted spectacularly, in the manner of a Longbottom cauldron in Potions.  This time, however, was different. 

As his responsibilities kept him in the dungeons a great deal, and hers in the DADA corridors, there was little opportunity for them to meet during the course of the day, but Draco knew that she was avoiding him.  Twice when he’d gone into the library, not, of course, to see her, he’d heard a swish of robes followed by a startled ‘Oh.’  Each time, he’d turned promptly, only to catch a glimpse of curly brown hair and flaring hems.  Draco should have felt exultant, should have gloated over his victory, but he hadn’t.  He had a curiously hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach that no amount of stomach soothing potion cured.  Poppy Pomfrey had become so exasperated with his repeated visits to her infirmary, insisting that something was wrong with him, that she’d hung a sign on the door ‘If this is Draco Malfoy and you aren’t unconscious or bleeding, GO AWAY!’

He’d attempted to push through the swinging doors to shout at the old windbag that if he was unconscious he wouldn’t be reading the bloody sign, but the doors to the infirmary had been charmed not to allow him admittance. 

This morning, though, he was determined to get a response from the brunette witch.  He was waiting outside the Great Hall before breakfast was served.  When the doors opened, he was the first inside and lurked in the shadows behind the staff table, where the gathered draperies hid him from view.  When Hermione stepped onto the dais, her hair shone in the filtering rays of sunlight from the clerestory windows high on the back wall.  As she crossed to her customary seat, Draco was hard on her heels.  His heart was racing.  She would have to acknowledge his presence this time.  There was one remaining taunt in his arsenal, one that had never failed to elicit a response from her.  Draco didn’t care how politically incorrect the term was, but when he growled Hermione’s name and she turned to look at him, the shuttered expression in her honeyed-brown eyes had frozen the words on his tongue as surely as if she’d cast an Impedimenta.   He was visibly confronted with the reminder that he’d somehow done something unpardonable.  She brushed past him and left, without uttering a sound or eating her breakfast.

After Hermione left the hall, Draco’s mood darkened in direct proportion to his frustration.  No one spoke to him during breakfast, and his broody state rivaled that of Snape during the worst weeks of Voldemort’s reign.   Ignoring his saturnine mentor at the other end of the High Table, Draco broke his toast into a small mountain of crumbs. 

When he finished his own breakfast, the Potions Master slid into Hermione’s vacant seat and casually said, “Cheer up, boy.  It won’t last forever.”

Draco was so stunned by Snape’s uncharacteristic sympathy that he choked on his tea.  With dazed eyes, he escaped the Great Hall, passing Professors Smith and Sprout on their way in to breakfast.  Utterly thankful that he had no specific classroom duties that day, the perturbed Malfoy heir practically ran to the Quidditch shed to retrieve his Firebolt XL.  He took flight, hoping to work off some of this unaccustomed funk.  He wondered if there was a name for whatever ailed him, some new disease that the dingbat mediwitch knew not.  Ruefully he acknowledged that his affliction did indeed have a name: Hermione Granger… the effervescently eager, virtuous, overly-friendly, everyone-loves-her, I’m-so-nice-your-toes-will-curl, Gryffindor witch.

Draco flew high above the Quidditch pitch for several hours, his brain curiously numb and his chest oddly tight, until long after lunch passed and afternoon classes were in full lecture.  Almost unbidden he came to a decision, as difficult a decision as any Malfoy could reach.  He was going to have to go talk to Hermione privately.  He’d never talked to her privately in his life.  He salved his ego with the understanding that he was only going to… to… explain… certainly not to apologize… Malfoys never apologized!

Unaware that she was the sole reason for Draco’s uncharacteristic bout of benumbed introspection, Hermione was in the DADA classroom working with four Hufflepuffs who continued to have difficulty casting the Patronus Charm.  Hermione was attempting to guide the students through a mental imagery to isolate a happy memory from their childhood, and it was a hard slog.  All four students had been orphaned as a result of the war, and finding any untainted reminiscence had been difficult.  These four students were the last of an initial group of nine. 

“Okay, Mr. Bulstrode, try it once more.  Close your eyes.  Think of your happy memory, and when you’re ready…”

The dark-haired Fifth Year took a deep breath, squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, and then pointed his wand and shouted, “Expecto Patronum!”

A shimmering jet of silvery white light shot from the end of his wand.  It remained formless, and dissipated rapidly, but it was the strongest manifestation of a Patronus the teenager had been able to cast thus far.

“Well done, Mr. Bulstrode.  Please have a seat.  Miss Kent, you’re next.”

As the students exchanged places, Hermione flicked her eyes to the top of the small, circular staircase at the head of the long classroom and the door of the DADA office.  The massive wooden door stood open.  Glimpses of the portrait hanging above the mantle inside the office could be seen from the floor where Hermione worked with the students, and while she knew that the professor was preparing for next week’s classes, he would also be keeping one ear open to what she was doing.  When she’d first learned of his habit to listen in on her interactions with the students, she’d called him to task.  Aside from any ethical considerations, it had bothered Hermione on some instinctive level, but she’d sought to understand his reasoning, and the only logical explanation seemed to be that he was questioning her competence.  And that had been simply intolerable.  

They’d had a fairly heated discussion, Smith explaining that he needed to know what she covered with the students or he couldn’t adequately build on their understanding, or even comprehend where they were going wrong.  It was a plausible rationale and, since then, Hermione had ignored the tiny ripple of disquiet she felt each time it became obvious that he was eavesdropping.  Once, she’d caught him listening in on a private conversation she’d been having with Snape.  She’d been furious, and, ignoring any prickling sense of unease, she’d made no bones about how she’d felt about his invasion of her privacy.  Her eyes sparked, her curls almost straightening with the emotional ferocity she’d radiated.  Smith had been equally angry, spewing some invective about inappropriate behaviour until, suddenly and unexpectedly, he’d ceased mid-rant and apologized.  It had never happened again, and they’d had no other difficulties working together. 

In fact, Hermione found teaching a very satisfying challenge.  Sometimes it was nothing but sheer drudgery, seemingly endless essays and tests to mark, but when a student’s eyes lit with comprehension, or fitted together some arcane piece of information with the lesson at hand, then it was sheer exhilaration. 

When Miss Kent and Mr. Adams had taken their last turn, Hermione decided to dismiss them a bit early; they’d worked diligently.  It was Friday afternoon and they’d earned their release.  “We’ll meet again in a week if none of you have been able to summon your Patronus.  Otherwise, you’re dismissed.” 

The students hastily thanked her and scrambled for the exit.  Hermione laughed at their eagerness, and remembered her own not-so-distant schooldays.  She mounted the circular stairs to the second floor office, passing a hovering cage of Cornish Pixies at the fifth step.  It reminded her of the disastrous day that Gilderoy Lockhart had let a different passel of pixies loose without having the faintest idea how to contain their mischief.  She remembered the pandemonium as she and Harry and Ron had grimly fought their way to help Neville. Their interlinked stance had been a defensive strategy that had worked for them during the war… they were strongest when they stayed together. 

As she always did when entering the DADA office, Hermione looked toward the location where Remus Lupin had kept the grindylow’s tank when he’d been a professor, and the wall where Dolores Umbridge had hung her collection of plates, as if their cloying cuteness could mask the malignance of her soul.  The roomy office now housed several floor to ceiling bookcases, filled to overflowing with an eclectic collection of reference books and scrolls, most of which were from Hermione’s personal collection.  The only personalized items of Smith’s were the magically enchanted coat rack, the oversized mahogany desk which he used daily, and the wizarding painting of the Smith’s ancestral home, hanging in pride of place over the fireplace.  Hermione looked toward the professor; he was smiling at her entrance, and she returned it.  She was feeling rather pleased with herself for the success of the controversial Muggle method that was helping the students. 

“It sounded like Adams and Kent were close to a breakthrough.  How many do you think you’ll still have next week, Hermione?”

“With any luck at all, just two.  Most likely Edward Bulstrode and Catherine Abbott.  I think Bulstrode will have difficulties for some time to come.”  Her eyes darkened with remembered sadness.  Edward Bulstrode was a first year, the youngest brother of Hermione’s year-mate, Millicent, and was the first non-Slytherin in his family.  In the final days of the Voldemort War, young Edward had seen his father curse his sister with Cruciatus, and kill their mother for not taking the Dark Mark.  His were some of the worst memories to overcome, and Hermione remembered that Millicent was now his guardian.  “Perhaps a letter to his older sister would help.  She might be able to take a short holiday to visit.  If that doesn’t work we’ll probably have to resort to a pensieve or a modified memory charm.”  Hermione shuddered at the thought.  She detested the idea of tampering with anyone’s mind - it smacked of omnipotence and a corruption of power.   

Smith thought for a moment.  “You know, family visits during the term aren’t really condoned, but the Board of Governors has been more flexible this year, considering the circumstances.  I can ask Albus.”

“Oh, would you, Zach?  That would be brilliant.”  Hermione’s eyes sparkled at the DADA Professor in gratitude.  She was never quite certain how he’d react to her suggestions, remembering quite clearly how difficult he’d been to work with in the early years of the DA.

“I’ll talk to him before staff meeting Monday morning.” 

“Thanks.”

Smith was quiet for a long moment, idly watching Hermione remove her burgundy teaching robe.  The colour brought out the dark tones of her hair, which he hated short.  It should be long like she’d worn as a student.  Even so, Smith was mesmerized by her movements.  His eyes followed her as she crooked one dainty finger at the coat rack – it obligingly wriggled its way across the floor to accept the burden of her garment – then settled at her small desk in the corner to tackle the week’s essays from the lower years.  Smith was aware that her custom was to stay in the office Friday evenings, grading the week’s assignments.  She valued her private time on the weekends and would work well into the night in order to have Saturdays and Sundays free of any duties but her rounds.  Smith knew her habits; he’d studied her, carefully cataloguing her routines until they were as familiar as his own. 

Hogwarts’ DADA Professor had nursed a powerful feeling for the beguiling witch since he’d been the recipient of her kindness in their seventh year.  She’d tutored him in NEWTs Arithmancy for two months – along with three others, but he conveniently forgot about them -- helping him bring his marks up to Auror-acceptable levels.  After he’d been injured during the graduation battle, Hermione had visited him once in St. Mungo’s.  He’d engineered a number of chance encounters over the years, and they had only caused Smith’s desire to grow until it was an almost painful need.  He wanted her.  She would be his.  When Dumbledore had announced that she would be returning to Hogwarts as his Apprentice, Smith had quietly gotten drunk to celebrate. 

Now, he listened to the quiet scritch of her quill, and watched the ink stain her fingers as she wrote.  Smith smiled at her bent head for a moment, then turned to his own stack of essays to mark.  This was his time… when she was his alone.

After a couple of hours, when the stack of successfully marked parchments had grown considerably, Smith summoned a house-elf to bring the Hogwarts’ equivalent of a working tea.  In the customary fashion of house-elves, the forthcoming repast was more than sufficient to feed a small country for a week; in this case it would serve as dinner for Hermione and him.

As the stocky DADA Professor crossed the room to retrieve his own cup of tea and watercress sandwiches, he was spurred by the green-eyed monster to ask a question that had been curdling in his gut for weeks.  The possibility that the rumor was true had caused him to escalate his eventual plans for acquiring Hermione’s affections.  He quelled his long-simmering anger and asked in an even tone, “I heard you accepted Snape?”

“Whatever are you on about?  Accepted Severus…?”

“The rumors have been rampant that you’re dating him.  How could you, Hermione?  He’s an old man… a Death Eater.”

“Zacharias!”  Her eyes flashed.  “Honestly.  Rumors never get anything right.  You should know him better than that.  You should know me better than that.”

He muttered, “I’d thought so…”

“… We had plans to go to the Muggle symphony in London, but he got an invitation to visit the new Potions Master at Durmstrang and we had to cancel.”

She didn’t notice the furrowing of Smith’s brow, or the darkening of his eyes as he listened to her.  She got up to approach the table to get her own tea, and continued, blithely unaware of the unnerving alteration in the pleasant face of the DADA Professor.  “…You know, he really is the dearest man, I know he hides it extremely well.  We owe him our lives ten times over.  He’s always had my respect…” Suddenly she laughed and nudged him with her elbow.  “Aren’t you going to say it?  Everyone else does… “

Releasing his pent-up anger in what he hoped would pass as a resigned sigh, even as he leaned over her to catch a whiff of her hair’s scent.  Smith then answered as expected, “If I had a knut for every time I’ve heard you say that, I’d be a galleonaire.” 

He had worked hard to gain her trust over the past few months, and he’d even boasted, in front of Snape and Draco, that they were friends.  Harry and Ron were effectively out of the picture, and, while Hermione was generally popular, she had very few close friends.  Her closest female friend, Ginny Weasley, had died in the Final Battle.  And Smith would be damned if Snape was going to become an intimate of Hermione’s.   Besides, friendship wasn’t what Smith was looking for… it wasn’t enough.  Nothing would serve until she was his alone.  All his careful planning was coming to fruition this very evening, so he could afford to be tolerant. 

It stymied Smith that Hermione appeared to be the only one completely ignorant of his interest in her.  She… and possibly Draco Malfoy.  Fortunately, the Slytherin was the least likely wizard to stand in Smith’s path.  Draco had openly hated Hermione for years.  All those years in school, and, even now, just a word from Draco and it was the only thing that Hermione could think about.  For days on end, she’d agonize over the things Draco had said to her.  The grey-eyed wizard was the only non-scholastic thing she’d talked about during the past two weeks.  She hadn’t even mentioned the Valentine’s gift she’d received.  No, her attention had been focused on Draco’s ability to taunt her.  It had been ‘Draco this’ and ‘Draco that.’ 

The Malfoy heir was their age, handsome, wealthy -- when the Wizengamot released his estate -- highly intelligent, and surprisingly loyal.  Draco had chosen Snape over his father’s sycophantic dogma during their sixth year.  If Smith hadn’t been so certain that Draco would never have anything to do with Hermione, he might’ve had reason to be concerned. 

Smith had wandered so far down the mental byway that Hermione’s comment startled him.

“No, really, Zach, Severus and I are friends.  We would never cross that line.  Friends are too precious to take the chance that it might not work.  Lovers may come and go, but a kindred spirit is yours forever.”  Having said this, and not realizing that Smith had stiffened next to her, Hermione carried her tea to her desk, and bent her burnished mahogany head to her task, pulling out another Third Year’s essay to mark. 

As he listened to her voice, Smith paid no attention to her wordsl he was lost in thought.  The former Hufflepuff slipped one hand into his pocket, fingers curling around a small vial.  A deeply satisfied smile tugged at his lips.  It had cost him three months wages, and several trips to Knockturn Alley wearing a glamour, but he’d acquired it:  Liquid Imperio.  It was highly illegal and extremely difficult to come by.  Four drops in her tea three times a week and she would be under his control.  After the first couple of months of subduing Hermione’s personality to suit his commands, he would taper off the dosage.  By then, she’d have grown so used to bending to his will that she’d believe it had been an organic process, and she really would be his.

He hadn’t planned on using the potion at first.  He’d been content to have the opportunity to gain her affections, but after he’d seen the greasy git of the dungeons sniffing after her, and her welcoming response, Smith had changed his plans.  Initially after acquiring the Liquid Imperio, he’d decided to wait until the summer to administer the first dose.  That way he’d have two months to let the potion control her.  But then the rumors had started to circulate, and that was when he’d decided to escalate his time-table.  He’d wanted to slip her the first dose the night the students went home for Spring break, which would’ve given him a week to mold her to his will.  But with the more recent potential of Hermione dating Snape and  since he’d seen them laughing together – no one had ever seen the greasy git laugh – Smith had accelerated his scheme even more.  After this weekend, she would never speak to Snape outside of the classroom or a staff meeting again. 

Hermione didn’t see Smith’s smoldering gaze as he agreed with her last statement, “You’re so right, Hermione… they’re yours forever.”

He crossed the room to his desk.  He might have missed his first opportunity to add the Liquid Imperio to her tea, but there was still time tonight.  If she was true to form, Hermione would have another three or four refills before the evening was through. Smith’s thoughts were disrupted by the arrogant, commanding voice of the other wizard in the castle he felt threatened by, and hated blindly.

“Oi, Granger, you in there…”  Draco’s shout could be heard even as the sound of his booted footsteps crossing the empty classroom announced his presence.  No one ever used the second floor entrance to the DADA Professor’s office, and the castle had been coaxed into walling it up after an almost successful attempt on the life of the previous DADA Professor.

Instinctively recognizing the threat to his perceived territory, Smith turned in a defensively protective stance, his wand arm slightly cocked, his face darkened in fury as Draco entered Smith’s sanctum sanctorum in search of his witch.

Draco immediately noticed Smith’s stance and glower.  It reminded him of the look Smith had given him on Valentine’s morning, so Draco angled his shoulders against the frame of the door, and casually dropped his arms in case he needed to reach his wand quickly.  Hermione didn’t seem to notice the tension in the atmosphere.  Her head was bent studiously to the task at hand.  It was spring at Hogwarts, and the doe in question was unaware that she was in season.

The DADA Professor circled to his chair, never taking his eyes off Draco, and then, once he was seated, his strange fury was replaced by his normally affable demeanor.  Draco was inexplicably reminded of Lucius.  It was not a pleasant comparison.

As Hermione realized that Draco wasn’t going away, she finally looked up from her work.  The tall, Potions Apprentice was dressed in his standard attire, worsted wool trousers, white linen shirt – no tie – and black teaching robes flapping open.  He’d obviously been outside because his normally pale cheeks were slightly flushed, and his hair had been mussed by the wind, long strands of cornsilk straggled across his shoulders.  Hermione had always thought his best feature was his eyes.  They were a barometer to his moods and ever changing, from a stormy charcoal, so dark they were almost black, to the palest hues of grey.  Now they were light grey and sparkling with life, and Hermione felt a bubble of something unnamable expand in her chest.  Her heart pounded in response to some unidentified stimuli.  She had never, in all the years she’d known him, been the recipient of such a look from Draco Malfoy.

Her voice reflected her curiosity, and was warmer than she intended, or possibly than he deserved.  “What do you need, Malfoy?”

“We’re not back to that again, are we?  Haven’t you been calling me Draco all term?”  Draco’s drawl was full of good humor, and he ignored the fact that he had been the reason for the breakdown of the peace between them.

Draco’s eyes were on Hermione’s petite face, and he liked the way her eyes had initially softened when she’d glanced at him.  It was welcoming, and the shuttered look from earlier that morning was gone.  Even as he basked in the unfamiliar and wholly pleasant feeling, a fraction of his mind – the part that had been trained by a Death Eater to recognize a threat -- kept track of the DADA Professor’s position and movements. 

Hermione tilted her chin, “You just called me ‘Granger.’  I thought we’d regressed in the past couple of weeks.”  Hermione averted her eyes as she remembered the reason she’d been referring to him as Malfoy.  Her heart clenched just as she clenched her teeth.  She refused to allow him to hurt her any more. 

“Right.  Can I talk to you for a minute… Hermione?”  He was turning on the charm and he smiled at her when he said her name… for the first time.  After all, if he was going to… talk to her… to apolo… no, explain, he should use her given name.  Draco was a bit chuffed by his gesture, but his focus was diverted for a moment when he felt, rather than saw, movement across the room.  Quickly glancing at Smith to make certain the Hufflepuff wasn’t an immediate threat, and not quite comprehending why that would be a possibility, Draco returned his attention to his objective… getting Hermione to listen to him. 

She was biting her lower lip in concentration.  Draco had always thought it was one of her most annoying habits, and had teased her about it mercilessly when they were younger.  But the visceral impact of a little girl biting her lower lip was enormously different than being in the presence of an adorable woman nibbling on her lower, full, pouting lip.  Bloody hell!  Draco forgot about the negligible threat of the DADA instructor.

“I need to finish marking these essays tonight.”  Hermione was flustered. She’d never been on the receiving end of the Malfoy charm.  Draco was being almost conciliatory.  It was entirely unlike him, and she didn’t know how to behave when confronted with a nice Malfoy.

“C’mon, Gra- Hermione, come with me… just for a tic.”  He cajoled. Shite!  Malfoys didn’t cajole.  He didn’t cajole.  What the bloody hell was he thinking?  This infuriating witch drove him around the bend.  She always had.  Couldn’t she even let him apologize without giving him grief?

Before the interaction could escalate in one fashion or another, Smith interrupted their tableau.  He hated it when Draco entered a room.  Hermione didn’t seem to be able to focus on anything else.  That would change.  Tonight.  “Hermione, I was going to discuss the idea of your taking the First Year’s classes for a couple of weeks, while I prepare the Forbidden Forest practical, but if you’d rather speak with Malfoy…”  

Take the bait, Smith thought, take the bait.  She’d been pestering him to let her teach the First Years for weeks.  He was certain the enticement would be too great for her to pass up.  Draco had hurt her for years, and she had no reason to trust that things were different now… other than her tremendous capacity for forgiveness.  Smith, on the other hand, had been working for months to get her to trust him, to rely on him.  As one alpha male recognizes the threat of another, the DADA Professor knew that he had to get Draco out of the office… now.  He might have been having second thoughts about his plans, but Draco’s presence had reaffirmed his decision, and Smith recognized that his leeway had just run out. 

“Really, Zach?  You’re going to let me teach?”  Hermione’s eyes sparkled enough to rival the sun.  Turning to Draco, her face was vibrant with happiness, but catching sight of his stormy grey eyes, her smile faded.  She noticed an unusually unguarded expression on his face. 

Draco rubbed his breastbone.  His chest felt tight, pinched, it almost hurt to breathe.  He knew what she was going to say before the words left her mouth.  

“Is it all right if we speak later, Draco?”

“Fine,” Draco bit out. 

Sudden fury consumed him.  He’d been about to apologize for the first time in his life… and to her, no less, and she didn’t want to hear it.  He straightened to his full height, and looked once more at Smith.  There was a glittering triumph in the Hufflepuff’s eyes that left Draco a little wary.  But he rationalized that the other wizard was just feeling triumphant because Granger had agreed to stay with him.  Everyone in the castle knew the DADA Professor was crushing on her, except the silly witch herself.  Still, the Malfoy heir wouldn’t turn his back on Smith any time soon, and he’d probably mention the incident to Snape.  Otherwise, the option on his time for apologies had just expired.

Draco backed out of the office, looking at Hermione one last time, her honeyed-brown eyes held his for several thudding heartbeats, imploring him to understand.  Well, he didn’t.  He’d come to find her, and she’d spurned his gesture of friendship.  Never again would Draco put himself in this position.  His eyes hardened to flint, and he stepped out of the office, turning so the wall of the outer staircase was at his back, leaving him protected.  He glanced at Hermione one last time before his departure.  An eerie blue aura had flared to life, outlining the Muggleborn witch’s body.  Draco blinked and looked again.  It was still there.  A corona of shimmering blue.  He shook his head slightly. It must be a trick of the torchlight and his overactive imagination.  At that precise moment, his stomach growled, he’d skipped lunch after all.  That was surely it.  He was hungry.  Without a further word, Draco departed.

~o0o~

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