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Chapter Text

Hermione doesn’t expect to return to Hogwarts ever again, let alone as Head girl. She definitely never expected to be supervising detention.

She sits in a classroom in the dungeons watching as three first-years write lines. I mustn’t blow up cauldrons for fun. Hermione watches them work diligently with their heads bent over their parchments, their oversized quills clamped tightly in their little hands. 

They are so small. Was she this small seven years ago?

She’s lost in her musings about the passage of time when there is a knock on the door. Hermione is startled—she isn’t expecting anyone else.

“Come in.”

The door opens to reveal a decidedly larger-than-an-eleven-year-old boy with a shock of white-blonde hair combed neatly to the side.

He stares at her, his expression tinged with bitterness. For a moment, Hermione is stunned to see her former bully show up unexpectedly to the first detention she has to supervise as Head girl.

She decides to pretend she is prepared.

“You’re late.”

He pulls a face. “So Filch has told you, then?”

“Sit.”

She has no idea what he’s talking about, or why he’s even here, but she decides to commit to the bit. She’s assuming that Filch caught him doing something against the rules and threatened to tell her about it—which he never did. In fact, she hasn’t seen Filch since the sorting ceremony—but Malfoy seems to think she has and has even shown up to detention for the supposed punishment no one actually ever gave him.

The good, upright, morally-correct side of her  tells her to dismiss him, to tell him she hasn’t a clue what he’s talking of, he’s not on her roster for tonight, see?

The other side of her—a smaller, quieter side—says to make him suffer.

Draco Malfoy takes a seat in the farthest corner of the room, and promptly puts his head in his arms, clearly aiming to spend his detention asleep.

Now, that won’t do. Especially if she’s already breaking the rules by punishing him when he hasn’t even been given a detention.

“Mr. Malfoy. This is not a daycare, and I am not supervising nap time.” The first years snicker. She taps the front and center desk with her wand, “Sit here.”

To his credit, he actually manages to keep his expression impassive this time. He takes the proffered seat in silence.

Hermione conjures a scroll of parchment and places it in front of him, but she immediately regrets this. She doesn’t know what he’s supposed to have done, and has no idea what lines she ought to assign. She briefly considers suggesting I must not become a Deatheater.

“What am I writing?” He asks tonelessly.

She smiles, a sudden bit of inspiration striking her.

“A ten inch essay on the virtues of Mustela furo.”

He stares at her blankly, clearly not expecting the Head girl to assign him homework.

“What’s a…? I don’t have any books to research the topic.”

She conjures several texts, and places them in a pile in front of him. On the cover of the topmost text is an adorable furry creature commonly known as a ferret.

He raises his eyes in astonishment at her blatant abuse of power, and she allows herself a small smile as she looks down at him.

“Questions, Mr. Malfoy?”

He shakes his head no, not meeting her eyes. He opens the text, and begins reading. He still hasn’t written a word when the first years finish their lines and hand them in.

They hurry away, rushing to make use of the rest of the evening before bed, leaving Hermione alone with Draco Malfoy.

She ignores him, staring at the wall beyond his head. She looks bored, but she’s really on edge. Why isn’t he writing anything?

He continues to read, occasionally turning the pages. She watches him briefly to see if he is actually reading, and while his eyes are moving across the page, she suspects it’s simply an act.

He still doesn’t pick up his quill.

The clock ticks louder and louder; it’s half-past nine now. She can’t keep him past curfew. He’s obviously trying to challenge her authority. Not a bad plan, either, Hermione has to admit. He simply has to wait her out. She’ll have to dismiss him by ten o’clock, and there is no absolute rule that you have to finish the task given to you in detention…

She’s mulling over her options when she comes up with a plan.

At a quarter to ten, he begins peeking at the clock. Hermione twirls her wand, unphased.

Ten to ten, and he closes all his texts and piles them neatly on one corner of his desk.

Five to ten, and he begins tapping his foot, eyeing the clock nervously. Hermione almost smiles to herself—he’s realized his mistake.

Hermione remains absolutely silent until thirty seconds to ten.

“You’re dismissed.”

He runs out of the room, his shoes squeaking with every step.

Hermione runs after him, but takes the trouble of running as fast as she can to a further staircase, almost tumbling down in her haste to get to the Slytherin common room before he does.

She collides into him roughly as she steps off the last stair. They fall in a tangle of limbs, his head producing a concerning crack against the stone floor. Her breath leaves her lungs in a huff, but she’s otherwise unharmed. Malfoy groans, cradling his head.

She picks herself up and brushes the imagined dungeon-dust off her robes. She almost laughs with the giddiness of having caught him within eyesight of the Slytherin common room entrance.

“Out after curfew, Mr. Malfoy?” She asks, and she’s surprised to hear the breathy adrenaline in her voice, “fifteen points from Slytherin, and detention with me tomorrow night.”

He scowls and slowly gets to his feet. He looks like he wants to say something—call her a filthy little mudblood, probably—but he seems to think better of it. He stomps off to the bare stone wall, and Hermione watches as he whispers the password ambition as if she doesn’t already know it. She rolls her eyes as he disappears behind the moving stones.

She almost skips back to the Head common room. She cannot wait for tomorrow night.

She’ll have to think of a better punishment this time. 

Chapter Text

Hermione spends the day dreaming up ideas for detention. Perhaps she can make him write I mustn’t test the Head girl’s authority one hundred times. Or, Hermione Granger is my superior one thousand times. That would really get it through his thick inbred skull, she thinks.

She decides by second period that lines are too simple. He could get around the punishment by writing as slowly as possible. She leaves Charms wondering if she should make him go to the Forbidden Forest—but that would mean pawning off the detention to Hagrid, and she’s really looking forward to torturing Malfoy herself, so she decides against it.

At lunch, she sees him sulking over a bowl of soup.

It puts her in a stellar mood.

In potions, she thinks of a new idea. The cauldrons are really quite dirty. It would do Malfoy a spot of good to participate in manual labour. He’d gain a new appreciation for the plight of muggles. She’s basically prescribing him a cure for his muggle prejudice and his classicism all in one go.

That’s it, then.

The bell rings to signal the end of double potions, and all of the students trudge out of the room, including Malfoy. Hermione stays behind, pretending to rearrange her overstuffed bag. Once the room is empty, she clogs the drain and lets the sink fill with water half way. The water becomes a nasty mess, newt eyes and salamander tails floating in murky sludge. She places her filthy cauldron at the very top of the pile.

-

Hermione sits with her friends at dinner, her back turned firmly against the Slytherin table. Her hair is neatly washed and braided into two long plaits down her back.

Neville has also returned for an eighth year at Hogwarts, mostly because he’s vying for an assistant professor position alongside Professor Sprout. He asks her why she’s still wearing her school robes.

“I have detention, and then rounds until midnight.”

“Oh God, Hermione. For a second there I thought you meant you had received detention!” Neville laughs, and Ginny joins in.

“Oh, please. As if Hermione would ever knowingly break school rules!”

Hermione tucks a loose hair behind her ear. “Now that I don’t have to run after Ron and Harry all the time, I hope I can keep myself out of trouble.”

“Hermione…” Neville says, narrowing his eyes at something across the room, “why is Malfoy staring at you?”

Hermione turns to look at the same time Ginny does. To his credit, Draco Malfoy does not shrink away. He stares at Hermione defiantly after she’s already caught his gaze. He does, however, begin to grow very red and splotchy.

“Ugh,” Ginny makes a face, “why does the ferret think he can look upon our Glorious Head Girl?”

“I gave him detention for being out after curfew,” Hermione explains, turning back to her food, “he’s probably just upset.”

That I’m elated, she finishes the sentence in her head.

“After curfew? Huh,” Neville chews his roast beef slowly, “I wonder why he was sneaking around.”

He’s right to be suspicious, of course, but Hermione feels a little guilty at the insinuation.

“Well, technically out after curfew.”

“Technically?” Ginny asks, intrigued.

“It was one minute past ten o’clock,” Hermione blushes.

Neville’s laughter is accentuated by slams of his palm against the dinner table.

“Brilliant!”

“I love you, Hermione.”

“Rules are rules,” she tells them primly.

Unless I’m the one breaking them,  she finishes silently.

“That they are,” Neville says fondly, grabbing a plate of pudding.

Hermione helps herself too—she’s going to need the energy.

-

Malfoy shows up exactly on time, his knock sounding at the same time as the 8 o’clock chime of the grandfather clock sitting on the far side of the room.

“Come in.”

He walks through the door, looking as grumpy as ever. She holds out her palm.

“Wand.”

He looks stricken, but with an ashen face, he places his wand in her hand. She delights in the feel of the hawthorn wood. The wand hums pleasantly in her hand—recognizing her from when Harry stole it in Malfoy Manor.

She puts it in her robe pocket, tucked safely next to hers.

“You’re going to be scrubbing cauldrons today,” she waves over to the sink.

Without a word, Malfoy walks over to the sink and begins rolling up his sleeves. She expects him to say something when he the extent of the mess, but he seems to have sworn off talking forever, because he says nothing.

She sits patiently at the teacher’s desk and watches his back for a while before growing bored. She had expected him to whinge a little .

Eventually, she pulls out her wand and begins practicing her transfigurations, but this grows boring as well. There’s only so many times she can transform a book into a ceramic teapot.

Still, Malfoy works silently. His back is stiff and he only pauses to rinse his sponge, or switch back to the scouring brush.

Hermione gets an idea. With only twenty minutes of his detention to go, she’s ready to up the ante.

“Hawthorn, right?” She asks as she holds up his wand.

He turns sharply, looking at her in horror as she examines his wand.

“And unicorn hair?”

He says nothing and looks at her apprehensively. He’s gripping the scouring brush tightly in his hand. The sponge floats in the dirty soapy water, abandoned.

“Funny,” Hermione experimentally waves the wand, producing a shower of red sparks, “I thought unicorn hair made the wand loyal.”

She whips the wand like a switch, and an arc of dirty water splashes forcefully over Malfoy’s shiny hair. He opens his mouth in shock and disgust, his expression quickly turning into one of wrath.

“Oops.”

He stomps over to her, ready to draw blood. Unfortunately for him, she’s in possession of two wands, and he, zero.

She holds his wand straight at him in a dueling stance, and he stops only when his chest collides with his own wand point.

“Are you quite done torturing me, Granger?” He spits, his hand wrapping around the other end of his wand.

“Not yet, Malfoy.”

“Give me my wand; I’m leaving.”

“Oh? I haven’t dismissed you.”

“I don’t care!”

“Insubordination? Sounds like another detention.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t I?”

“Someone will notice!”

“That Draco Malfoy is receiving detentions for piss-poor behavior? I don’t think it’ll raise any red flags.”

This seems too close to truth, because it causes Malfoy to act desperately and wrap his other hand over hers in order to win his wand back.

They begin a very childish game of tug-a-war. Hermione uses both her hands to try to pull the wand back, and leverages her shoulder to push against his chest. She’s outmatched in height and strength, but for a moment, the shoulder strategy seems to work. However, in another moment, she finds herself pulled flush against his chest, her shoulder maneuver successfully blocked. Hermione is essentially and embarrassingly encased in Malfoy’s heavy arms. His hands wrap around hers, trying desperately to pry her dainty fingers off his wand.

She is seconds away from losing. Naturally, she bites him.

He yelps, but doesn’t let go of his wand, instead leaning back until her feet are off the floor.

“Let go of me, you ferret!” She kicks her legs uselessly in the air.

“Let go of my wand, you insufferable swot!”

“Never!”

“I’ll bite you!”

“You wouldn’t!”

“You bit me!”

“And I’ll do it again!”

“You lunatic!”

They grapple. Hermione attempts to get the wand away from him, but extending her arms forward only causes him to push her into the teacher’s desk. He tries again to pry off her little fingers, gritting his teeth in frustration.

“Stop!” She yells after he’s removed one of her hands successfully. He doesn’t listen and pulls her arm roughly behind her back. He begins working on her other hand.

“Malfoy! I demand that you stop, or I’ll give you another detention!”

“Unhand my wand, you witch!”

She tries to lean forward to bite him again, but he wraps his arm around her trunk and pulls her until her back is firmly arched, her pelvis digging into the desk.

“You’re hurting me!”

He abruptly lets her go. She’s so surprised by it that she drops his wand, causing it to clatter as hawthorn meets oak. Malfoy snatches it off the sturdy desk, and steps back immediately to put space between them.

They catch their breath. Hermione shoots Malfoy the most venom-filled glare she can muster.

“You’re a prick.”

“You’re a menace!”

“I’m Head girl.”

“Swot!”

“You’ve already used that one.”

“I didn’t realize we weren’t allowed to reuse insults.”

“You’re right—you need more than two brain cells to rub together to keep up with me.”

“You’re unbearable, you know that?”

Hermione smiles sweetly. She’s caught a glimpse of the clock.

“And you’re out after curfew again. Another fifteen points from Slytherin, and detention with me again on Saturday night.”

Malfoy looks as if he’s been stupefied. His head swivels sharply to confirm the time.

10:01.

Argh.

Chapter Text

It is a beautiful September day at Hogwarts. The sun is still shining after dinner, the overgrown grass is waving in the gentle breeze, and it is Saturday. Hermione’s mood matches the beautiful weather in that there is a certain joyous pep in her step. She simply cannot stop smiling.

“Swot.”

“Prick.”

“Twat.”

“Idiot.”

“Nerd!” Malfoy yells as he runs away, getting the last word in.

Hermione is in such a good mood that she doesn’t bother to raise her voice to yell “jerk.” She turns the page of her Charms textbook as she skims the chapter. She’s supervising detention again. She had the brilliant idea of taking Malfoy out to the quidditch pitch this evening, and it was especially wonderful to see his face fall when he realized detention would not be including brooms.

Instead, she’s making him do laps around the pitch the muggle way.

He’s a rather good runner, Hermione has to admit. He certainly has a lot of stamina. He’s been jogging around the pitch for forty minutes now, and has yet to show signs of slowing down. He even has the energy to yell insults at her every time he passes her on the bench as she peruses her text.

Here he comes again…

“Stuck-up goody-two-shoes!”

“Ferret.” She responds, nonplussed.

“Know-it-all cow.”

“Ugly—”

“Now we both know that’s a lie!”

“Tosser!” she yells after him, taking a sip from her water flask.

He’s out of range again, and she turns her attention back to her book. Her mind wanders, however, to some choice insults she can use when Malfoy circles back.

“You’re a… numpty.” He gasps as he returns, finally a little out of breath.

“And you’re out of shape.” Hermione responds as she turns another page. It’s easy to assume unaffectedness; she's not the one who's been exercising.

“Sadist!” Malfoy groans, holding a stitch at his side. He hobbles along regardless.

“Overconfident melon.”

“Mousy… boring… imbecile.” Draco slumps to the ground, and unceremoniously settles on the grass, spread out like a starfish.

“I didn’t say you could stop running.”

Malfoy groans louder. It's very dramatic. “Haven’t you tortur—abused me enough?”

“It’s only seven-thirty.”

Malfoy throws his forearms over his eyes. “Let me at least rest for a bit.”

“No rest for the wicked, Malfoy,” Hermione prods his side with her foot.

“Why do you have to be such a… soapy lid.”

Hermione rolls her eyes at his amusing insult. Creative, too. She’s not too proud to admit she’s impressed… to herself. She’s rather die than compliment Malfoy out loud.

“Same reason you smell like a sack of potatoes. Now, up!”

Draco removes one arm and glares at her with one watery eye. “I only smell because you’ve been forcing me to run for the past hour!”

 “Forty-five minutes.”

“Argh! You’re impossible.”

“And you’re serving detention, so—”

He rolls over and picks himself up, and her words die on her lips. He’s very tall, and he’s standing very close.

“There is something wrong with you, Granger. Very wrong with you.”

He clearly means it as another light-hearted insult in their little game, but she takes more offense to it than she’d care to admit.

“Oh yeah? Which part of me? My teeth? My hair? My blood?”

There’s a testy silence between them. Hermione sees gooseflesh on Malfoy’s bare forearms even though the night chill has yet to settle in. His eyes glint like chipped iron. He seems older in the blue hues of twilight. But when he opens his mouth, she remembers that he is very much still an eighteen year old wizard.

“Your brains, you absolute egg.” He sneers at her, and begins jogging again.

“At least I don’t look as if my mother is a veela and my father is a troll.” Hermione yells at his back.

He’s already too far to respond. Hermione goes back to her bench and tries to focus on the upcoming Charms exam, but she’s too distracted. She’d never been insulted for her intelligence before. It’s frankly outrageous.

She’s ready for Malfoy when he comes around the bend.

Unfortunately, he opens his mouth first.

“I’ve got a good one, Granger!” His tone is disturbingly friendly. Hermione files that thought away for later. “What looks like a lion, harrumphs like a hippogriff, and hangs around a weasel? Hermione Granger!”

He looks positively proud of himself.

“That’s pathetic, Mal—harrumphs? I don’t even—a lion? Hippogriffs are already part-lion, so that doesn’t make any sens—”

“No, but you see, hippogriffs have the wrong end of a lion.” He pulls a strand of her hair; not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make the curl bounce. It’s… cute??????

Hermione becomes incredibly nauseous.

“I do not look like a lion. I am a girl, and would therefore be a lioness, and the females do not have manes—”

“That’s besides the point. Male lions are cooler.”

“Lionesses do most of the hunting!” 

“Is that how Potty and Weasel survived for so long? Actually, don’t answer that. I already know it is.”

“Ugh! You’re—insupportable!”

He grins. “See you next lap, swot.”

“You’ve already used that one several times!” She shouts at his back.

“It just suits you so well!” he shouts over his shoulder.

She watches him run until he almost disappears on the far end of the quidditch pitch. It’s dark already, and she’s getting a headache. Malfoy’s demeanor is… unusual. She doesn’t let herself think the actual word that fits his behavior, because bringing the word friendly out of her subconscious will surely cause an aneurysm.

She's too young for such health complications. Hasn't she already been through enough? She tucks her book under her arm and walks back to the castle.

Malfoy will have to use his pea-sized brain to figure out he’s been dismissed all on his own.

Chapter Text

Hermione pulls out another wet piece of paper from her hair. She keeps her back turned firmly against the onslaught, determined to ignore the culprit behind her incredibly soggy hairdo.

Malfoy is persistent, however. She feels a particularly wet piece of sludge hit her shoulder.

“Bugger, I missed.” He whispers. She can hear him preparing another piece of parchment, dipping it loudly in his goblet.

She does not turn around to confront him. Confronting him would lead to a conversation, and conversations eventually lead to banter, which leads to friendliness, and she’d rather die than be friendly with Draco Malfoy.

“Mr. Malfoy!” Professor Osmanovic, the new Transfiguration professor, says. “Why are you pouring water all over your parchment?”

“It seemed thirsty,” Malfoy answers innocently. Snickers fill the room.

Professor Osmanovic vanishes the mess and drains Malfoy’s transfigured goblet of water in one go. “Five points from Slytherin.”

Hermione doesn’t know how Malfoy reacts, because she refuses to turn around. Instead, she takes her hair (now very wet and messy), and twists it at her neck. Thankfully, she has a claw clip in her bag.

She turns her attention back to her transfiguration homework. Professor Osmanovic assigned them a fifteen-inch essay on the merits of biotic-to-abiotic transfiguration, and allowed them to start if they finished their class assignment early.

Like Malfoy, Hermione had already transfigured her tiny squeaking shrew into a goblet. Unlike Malfoy, she isn’t spending the rest of the lesson trying to get under his skin.

The bell finally signals the end of the period, and Hermione jumps up to attend her next lecture. It isn’t that History of Magic is particularly exciting, but it’s the one class she doesn’t share with the ferret-faced nuisance.

He sticks his foot as she passes his desk in a poor attempt to trip her. She steps over it easily.

Malfoy stuffs his things into his bag and jumps after her.

“Granger.”

Hermione decides not to acknowledge him.

“Granger!” He’s walking next to her now, and it looks disturbingly like they’re walking to class together.

“Are you ignoring me?”

Still, resolute silence.

“You never dismissed me last night, but you’ll be proud to know I kept running laps around the pitch.”

She looks forward, moving with measured steps.

"It got quite dark."

Don't respond, don't respond, don't respond...

“In fact, I didn’t stop until past ten o’clock. One minute past ten, to be exact.”

Hermione hums noncommittally.

“Technically, I’m still in detention because I was never dismissed.”

She tries to turn right to follow the hall leading up to Professor Binns’s classroom, but Malfoy stands in her way, spreading his arms wide to block her.

“Aren’t you going to punish me for being out after curfew again?”

Hermione purses her lips. Do not engage, she warns herself. Don’t even look at him!

She keeps her eyes trained firmly at his shoes. They’re black oxfords, polished until she can almost see her reflection in them.

“Ignoring me? Spectacular. Wish we could have gotten to this point in our relationship years ago.”

“We don’t have a relationship.”

“Ah ha!” Malfoy points at her with one offensively long finger, his face lighting up in excitement, “Made you talk!”

“You are such a child!”

“A lovable, adorable one?”

“More like a sickly-looking Victorian orphan.”

“I don’t know what that is!” Malfoy tells her happily, his tone becoming light and conversational, “Muggle references can be so confusing, don’t you think?”

Hermione gives him a look that could freeze boiling water. There he goes, trying to be friendly again.

“Not for a muggleborn, Malfoy.”

“I’ll have to tell Professor Smithson about it, he’ll love to tell me all about Victoria’s orphans.”

“Victorian—Professor Smithson?”

“That’s his name, yes.”

“As in, the muggle studies professor?”

“It’s very un-swot-like of you to ask such obvious questions.”

Hermione rolls her eyes, adjusting her bag on her shoulder. “Why would you have anything to say to the muggle studies professor?”

“Oh come on, Granger. Use your deductive reasoning. You’re meant to be brilliant, aren’t you? Poor performance, if you ask me.”

“Good thing no one would think to ask you,” she shoots back.

“Why not? I’ve only ever come second to you. I am the next smartest student in our year.”

“That’s only because Harry and Ron don’t try—”

“HA!” Malfoy laughs exaggeratedly, “I didn’t know ‘comedian’ was on your list of merits as well!”

“I’m not being funny—ugh, get out of my way, you pillock!”

Hermione tries to move right to go around him, but Malfoy mirrors her movements. Then she tries left, and he blocks her again. All the while, he’s wearing this infuriating smile.

“Tell me, swot, is Potter technically one of Victoria’s orphans?”

“If you don’t get out of the way, I’m going to hex you!”

“Dueling in the corridors?” A brisk and very adult-like voice interrupts them. Hermione’s and Malfoy’s heads swivel comically fast towards Professor Vector looking disapprovingly at the both of them.

“No—”

“Professor—”

“And, loitering in the halls during lessons?”

“No! I—”

“Professor, it’s not—”

Professor Vector holds up her hand to silence them both. “That’ll be detention, I think. I expected better from you both, especially you Miss Granger, as Head girl.”

Hermione ducks her head to hide her blush. She’s going to kill Malfoy.

“Also, five points each from Slytherin and Gryffindor. Now, get to class.”

Hermione stomps off to her lecture without another word nor look at the pale source of all her problems.

Chapter Text

“Stop going so fast. We missed a spot because of you!”

“We missed a spot because of your noodle arms. At least try to apply more pressure!”

Mopping floors is not glamourous work, especially not when you have to do it with the biggest bully in school.

Hermione huffs in annoyance, forcing Malfoy to take two steps back, but he resists, holding the insanely large two-person mop in place.

“If you go backwards, you’ll just smear the mess! We’ll have to double back.”

Hermione glares at him, resting against her side of the long mop handle. “We wouldn’t have to double back if we just did a good job from the get-go!”

“Well, it’s too late now, isn’t it?” Malfoy challenges her, “Can’t go back unless you’ve got a time-turner.”

Hermione raises a single brow.

“A time turner? Really?” Malfoy asks, aghast. “Is there anything you haven’t gotten up to?”

Hermione straightens up, and takes hold of the wooden pole in front of her. Hermione wasn’t a frequent participant in detention, but she was certain this was a whole new method of torture for wayward students. Professor Vector had looked very pleased with herself when she fused two gigantic mops in order to create one very large monstrosity that had to be wielded by two people at least. Then she ordered them to mop the entire Great Hall.

At least the house-elves were getting a break.

Still, Hermione is struggling with the weight of the thing. It resembles a yoke more than it does a household cleaning tool. She leans against it, and Malfoy groans.

“For goodness sake, Granger, stop leaning against the thing. I’m sick of carrying your weight!”

“Are you calling me fat?”

“Hardly. Just lazy.”

“No one with half a brain would think I’m lazy.”

“Good thing I’ve got my whole brain, then. Come on.”

He begins pushing the mop, and it wetly drags against the stone floor. They go about 3 metres before they’re both groaning with effort, another 2 metres before theyre out of breath, and by the time they reach the 10 metre mark, they’re both sweating.

They pause.

“I’m going to kill you,” Hermione promises breathlessly.

“May I request that you do it now?”

“And have to finish on my own? Fat chance.”

“More like an impossibility, noodle-arms.”

“Noodles?” Hermione flexes her bicep unconvincingly. “I’ll have you know these arms write twenty-inch essays in one sitting. Regularly.”

“Impressive,” Malfoy comments, and reaches over to squeeze her bicep.

They both freeze. Malfoy is still pinching her barely perceptible bicep muscle. Hermione is still flexing it. Hermione watches as another splotchy blush fills Malfoy’s cheeks. She can feel hers spreading across her face as if a trail of fire is moving across the bridge of her nose.

They both immediately get to work, pushing the mop another ten metres with gusto.

They pause.

“It’s so hot.”

“I’m so sweaty.”

The speak at the same time. Malfoy takes one look at her, and peels off his sweater. In doing so, like many other boys and men do, he accidentally almost pulls off his entire shirt.

Hermione looks away as fast as she can.

“Be careful! I almost had to gouge my eyes out.”

Malfoy scoffs. “I think you mean I blessed you with a vision of my perfect alabaster skin.”

“Ew.”

“Admit it, you’re hot and sweaty… and not just from the mopping.”

“Ew.”

Hermione mimes barfing before she picks up the handle again, and pushes it less than five metres before she has to stop and remove her knit-vest off as well.

She’s careful not to bare any skin, though.

Malfoy almost looks disappointed.

They’re not even close to half-way done when Malfoy begins complaining in earnest.

“What did we really do to deserve this? We were simply having a conversation, and Vector rudely interrupted—”

“I was going to hex you.”

“In a friendly kind of way!”

“I don’t know any friendly hexes, Malfoy.”

“Please, call me Draco.”

“When hell freezes over.”

“Professor Smithson mentioned that one! Says it’s an idiom that signifies impossibility. Kind of like when wizards say, ‘Merlin’s hairy testicles.’”

“Wizards do not say that.”

Malfoy shrugs.

“Depends on the wizard, I ‘pose.”

“Stop talking to me and mop!”

“I’m tired, woman!”

“I can’t believe she took away our wands and just left us here!” Hermione rubs a droplet of sweat off her brow. Malfoy looks on sympathetically.

“She’s a right witch. Probably just angry that the two best students in our year didn’t take her stupid class.”

“Astronomy isn’t stupid!”

“So you agree we’re the best students in our year?”

Hermione rolls her eyes and ignores him, preferring to use her strength to mop rather than talk useless things with Draco Malfoy.

“Hermione—may I call you Hermione?”

“No.”

“Right. Want to skive off and have a snack in the kitchens?”

“No!”

“Is this about the house-elves? I don’t think they’d mind; we have made their work load significantly lighter today.”

“Malfoy, can I ask you a favor?”

His head snapped to look at her with interest. “Depends on what it is.”

Slytherin through and through.

“I need you to remind me to send my condolences to your mother.”

“Because you’re going to kill me?”

“Because you’ve clearly lost your mind.”

“It does run in the family,” Malfoy muttered, and Hermione was too surprised by the self-deprecating remark to do anything but pretend she didn’t hear him.

They are almost done when Professor Vector returns to the Great Hall.

“Good work, the two of you. Lunch is about to start soon, so you are both dismissed.”

She doesn’t seem to care that they only just finished mopping about two-thirds of the room. Hermione lets go of the mop as quickly as she can, praying the house-elves will forgive her for abandoning it in the middle of the Great Hall.

She needs to get away from Malfoy.

-

After that fateful Saturday morning detention, Malfoy makes a nuisance of himself more often. He stares at her during mealtimes, and when she glares back at him, he has the audacity to wave.

He sits at her table to study, and he doesn’t even have the decency to look offended when she picks up her things and moves to a different part of the library.

He sends her funny notes in class, which she always crumples up without reading of course. She just knows they’re funny because she can hear Malfoy snickering as he writes them.

All this is bad enough, but then it gets even worse because Malfoy begins sitting next to her.

In every class.

Thank goodness she decided on History of Magic and not Muggle Studies.

That is the other thing—the Muggle Studies professor, Professor Smithson, is besotted with Malfoy. He can’t stop singing his praises. As Head Girl, she is often invited to attend faculty meetings, and he never fails to mention Malfoy somehow. You would think Draco Malfoy was the inventor of the first wizard’s wand. You would think he was Merlin himself.

When all he had done was ace his quiz on muggle home electronics.

Hermione is leaving yet another faculty meeting, muttering to herself about how she has always known what a television is when she runs into the problem himself.

“Oi, Granger!”

She sighs audibly.

“Lovely to see you, too.”

She says nothing. Hermione wonders if he’ll disappear if she manages to avoid eye contact.

“Hulloooooo! Earth to Granger!”

“More muggle idioms?”

“Can you believe they’ve gone to space? And without a wand? And returned?!”

“Incredible stuff.”

She meant to sound sarcastic, but he nods earnestly, looking genuinely impressed.

Hermione is immediately suspicious.

“What do you want, Malfoy?”

“Just a chat. Where are you headed to?”

Hermione is ready to pull her hair out. How can he think he can just have a chat with her? Doesn’t he know they are mortal enemies? That he is the first bully to ever call her a mudblood? That he and his family were on the wrong side during the war?

She tells him as much. Well, it’s not so much telling as it is flat-out yelling. Very loudly.

Her voice bounces off the castle stone, and she watches with satisfaction as Malfoy’s face falls slowly until it’s almost impossible to tell it from the stone walls around them. He’s no longer wearing that silly expression, and smiling that goofy smile at her. Instead, he looks impassive, blank, empty.

Good.

Hermione storms away, not waiting to see if Malfoy will recover.

She doesn’t feel the least bit bad about it.

Not even a little.

(Well, maybe a little).

-

He avoids her for twelve days before she admits to herself that she may have enjoyed his annoying commentary a little.

Nineteen days when she admits she misses it.

Twenty-four days when she begins throwing bits of wet parchment at him in Transfiguration.

He doesn’t turn around, instead letting the soggy bits of paper cling to him as if they belong there.

She tries sending him funny notes, but he simply stares at them and tucks them away in his bag. She’s especially disappointed when he doesn’t read the one about the thestral running into a crumple-horned snorkack at a Wizard’s chess tournament.

She waits to catch him staring at her during meals, but he never does.

On the thirtieth day, she accepts her fate.

Whatever strange, ephemeral friendship she had struck with the Biggest Snot of Slytherin, it is now over. He won’t talk to her, and really, she isn’t going to pursue it much further. If anything, what she said was the truth, even if the delivery was a little hurtful; in fact, she is the one who deserves an apology. So it would be ridiculous for her, Hermione Granger, to apologize to a Malfoy. It should be the other way around. And if he is determined to ignore her, than she could ignore him too.

She ignores him for one day.

On the thirty-second day, Malfoy sits next to her at her study table in the library.

He doesn’t look at her, but instead faces forward as he begins robotically, “I apologize for all of my wrong doings, starting with,” He draws a deep breath, and unfurls a scroll, “calling you a bushy-haired beaver in first year, mocking you behind your back for raising your hand so often in Defense class (and Potions, and Charms, and Transfiguration, and Herbology, and Care of Magical Creatures, etc, etc), following you back to Gryffindor tower and making ghost sounds so you would be too scared to go back to bed—”

“That was you?”

He gives her a pointed look, as if to say don’t interrupt.

He clears his throat, “I apologize for snitching to McGonagall that time you and your gang were at Hagrid’s hut past curfew, for almost murdering his completely inappropriate and dangerous hippogriff—for which I concede I was rightfully slapped for. I apologize for calling you a bad and racist word I won’t repeat here multiple times over the years, beginning in second year when I first learned it.” He takes a deep breath, “I apologize for sneering behind your back, charming your Gryffindor ribbons to turn green and silver once you take your seat on the pitch for quidditch games—”

“—I can’t believe you—”

“and also for charming your right sock to feel tighter than your left sock—”

“—That—Ugh! That annoyed me for months—"

“and also for telling Professor Umbridge you cheat on all our exams—”

“As if!”

“Yeah, even she didn’t buy that one,” Malfoy agrees, turning back to his parchment. “I apologize for some of the nasty but very clever songs I made up, for accidentally cursing your teeth—”

“That one actually turned into a blessing—”

“I liked your teeth before,” he tells her sincerely, “They were cute.”

They look at each other for a moment, and he’s about to turn back to his list when Hermione stops him by placing her hand over his.

“Draco—can I call you Draco?”

“I prefer Draconis Rex.”

“Right. Draconis Rex—you don’t have to read this to me anymore. Your ugly voice is giving me a headache.”

He grins.

“Hermione—can I call you Hermione?”

“I prefer the Princess of Gryffindor.”

“Right. The Princess of Gryffindor. I apologize for my grating voice. Your vocals remind me of the Mariah Carey herself. Or maybe Adele, but without the cockney.”

“Smithson?”

“He’s such a cool bloke,” Draco sighs contently, “Hey, want to sneak into the kitchens for a snack?”

“Yeah,” Hermione says, smiling from ear to ear, “I do.”

-

FIN

-