The Gloriana Set

Hogsmeade

Hermione turned up late at the Potions lab on Saturday morning: hungover, sleep-deprived and ready to hex somebody. Every time she'd closed her eyes the night before, she'd seen Malfoy and Astoria together, imagined him sidling up to her with hooded eyes and a long, pale hand on the witch's slender hip. She thought of Astoria laughing lightly with Narcissa Malfoy over tea, and remembered those tilted blue eyes shining at Malfoy by the fireplace at Slughorn's party. She could only see the back of his head then, but he hadn't exactly been trying to escape. Godric only knew what he had been saying to her, likely in that low murmuring tone, with that hypnotic stare. Hermione had tossed in bed, imagining them in some corner of the dungeons, heatedly kissing, fingers sliding through perfect hair. In the end, she fell into a restless sleep and dreamed of Malfoy whispering, "I'll kiss you if you tell me about your gardens, Astoria ..."

So she was bitterly disappointed to see six bushels of clover blossoms neatly stacked on a table in the Potions dungeon the next morning. That meant she couldn't yell at Malfoy for failing to a procure a vital ingredient, turn him into a toad and then stomp off to take a nap. Even worse, she found Malfoy virtuously stirring up a rainwater base in a small copper cauldron and looking surprisingly well-rested for a man who presumably spent the night in passionate pureblood shagging nirvana.

"Granger," he said amiably. "You look like hell."

She glared at him through bloodshot eyes and said nothing, just consulted the recipe and began on the flobberworms.

"Those should be chopped, not mashed," Malfoy said as he measured a teaspoonful of diced crocodile heart with delicate precision.

Hermione waved her wand, vanishing the butchered worms, and started again. Malfoy began to whistle as he minced his motherwort. Apparently, the man just needed to get laid all along, she thought. No need for games with the Mudblood anymore.

"Granger," Malfoy said.

Well, I'm personally thrilled about it. Let Astoria haul his ass out of whatever hot soup he lands in next ...

"Granger," Malfoy said.

Sure won't be me, don't know why I'm fretting about a damned ...

"Granger!"

"What?" she snapped, slamming down her knife. A glob of flobberworm guts spurted onto Malfoy's Quidditch jersey.

"Merlin, Granger," Malfoy said, wrinkling his nose. Hermione raised her wand to tergeo the guts away, but he held up a hand. "Don't. I'd rather you didn't point a wand at me in your current mood."

She lowered her arm, registering his green-and-silver jersey for the first time. "You're going to Quidditch practice," she said.

Malfoy nodded. "Madam Pomfrey cleared me to play."

"Splendid." Hermione began scraping her finished flobberworms into the cauldron. "I'm sure you'll present her with any number of interesting crushes and fractures and internal damage. If you survive the season."

"Granger." She felt Malfoy's hand on her arm. "I'll be fine," he said quietly. "I've taken precautions."

"Oh, really? And what precautions could you possibly take?" She glared up at him. "You'll be high above the pitch during games and practices. You could be hexed, your broom could be sabotaged, a Bludger could be enchanted, another player could be Imperioused, you could be Imperioused, the Snitch could be cursed—"

"Alright, enough, I get it." Malfoy stared at her wide-eyed. "Merlin." Then he smiled. "Maybe you should come keep an eye on me."

Hermione pulled her arm away. "I need to get the clover." She stomped out of the room and returned with an overflowing bushel basket, dropping it with a thud on the table. "I'm surprised you picked all this yourself," she said, then gave Malfoy a flinty stare. "Or maybe not."