Turning Tables [Honey & Neon]

[Honey Blossom]

Something was off.

Of course, Hermione would always say that when it came to certain things – Ron and Harry waking up early, a class not starting exactly on time, Lavender or Parvati's behavior when they began seeing someone new – but rarely was she wrong about it. Often, the paranoia she felt, manifesting as a nervous flutter in her chest and a lump in her throat, turned out to be correct in some capacity, especially as the years wore on and the battle between good and evil intensified. Things had been rapidly accelerating toward the apex of the conflict for years, but the battle at the Department of Mysteries the previous year had solidified it – everything was going to change, and soon.

With the prospect of facing Voldemort approaching sooner rather than later, the last thing on Hermione's mind should have been the jittery behavior of one of their classmates, but when that classmate was Draco Malfoy, rumored to have become a Death Eater over the summer, she couldn't help but take notice. When he had arrived, flanked closely by Crabbe and Goyle, his previously pristine appearance – she could admit he was well-kept, after all, as that was an objective fact – was unkempt, hair disheveled and tie hanging from his neck in a loose knot.

That hadn't happened even after he'd faked the hippogriff attack, so when he abruptly ran from the Great Hall, Hermione muttered a brief excuse and rose from the Gryffindor table.

It was easy to follow his path; students instinctively parted as he rushed from the central hall, weaving a path all-too-familiar to Hermione – he was headed to Myrtle's bathroom. Why there, Hermione didn't know; with the ghost's crush on Harry, Hermione couldn't have imagined she'd be too friendly to his nemesis, but she was soon proven wrong.

Myrtle was silent as Draco leaned over one of the sinks, seeming to heave, fresh water from the sink dripping down his face.

Hermione couldn't hear what he was saying to the ghost, or what she was saying in return, but something about the interaction incensed her – how dare he take refuge in the one place she was able to have to herself? He must have followed her there one night to even know that it wasn't inaccessible – after all, she, Harry, and Ron were the only ones that dared set foot in it.

Inching closer, Hermione jumped as her foot splashed into an unseen puddle, making an audible echo in the otherwise silent bathroom. Frozen to the spot, she at least had the sense to let her hand flit to her wand should she need to use it before he turned to face her.​

 

[Neon Dream]

Bad faith dragon.

That was what the name 'Draco Malfoy' translated to that exact term, a curious choice that his mother, Narcissa, had refrained comment on, though his father Lucius had always claimed that it meant that Malfoy was fated for great and powerful things - though terrible too, it must be said. Always, there must be the terrible, the horrible, that which caused extra damage to their 'lesser' magical brethren or those completely added Muggles in turn. Big, bold and brave; that was what it meant to be a Death Eater, to be one of Voldemort's inner circle, to be among those that were most feared throughout the magical realm. Draco had managed to achieve that rare title going into his sixth year at Hogwarts, and many of his people were proud of him.

But he? He was not exactly proud, no.

For one thing, the task that he had been assigned, in all actuality, was no less than the murder of Albus Dumbledore himself; he was perhaps the most single accomplished and famed wizard alive. Did the Dark Lord actually expect him to succeed? Privately, Draco doubted as much; his father had gotten shellacked over the failure at the Department of Mysteries at the end of the previous year, and therefore Draco thought that this was a convenient way of getting rid of the Malfoy clan entirely - unless, of course, he succeeded. And while he had some plan and some idea of how to make it work, that wasn't going to be the easiest thing in the world to be able to pull of no matter who happened to get that unenviable task.

After his tiff with Harry - that fool was probably far on his way back to Britain by now - he was all riled up and wanted no part of the proceedings in the Hall. Then who should show up but Harry himself, accompanied by Luna Lovegood? UGH.

It was that which made Draco bolt from the premises, and he wasn't at all looking forward or behind him, so focused was the lanky blonde on putting his foot forward and managing to stow away to the one place that he thought would be secure - Moaning Myrtle's stall in the girl's lavatory. No one went there and he could actually be free, and alone, for once.

However, if he genuinely felt like he was going to get any sort of actual peace and quiet here, it was broken immediately by the presence of someone else.

This someone, he knew, and he wasn't exactly a big fan of hers either. Why was she here, of all people? He had been conversing with Myrtle what he had to do and why it was so hard, and she had been offering him a sympathetic ear but just when he thought he was getting anywhere, Draco heard the telltale splash of the puddle near the front of Myrte's stall. Visitors...no, one visitor. One Mudblood visitor, as he could tell from her particular scent, the same perfume she usually wore.

Hermione Granger.

Instantly, he flipped around as fast as he could, and brandished his wand out with a steady hand, pointing it right at her; she was the best witch in his year, so she could hex him before he even got a chance to cast anything. So, he didn't, and instead narrowed his eyes frostily. "Just wnat on earth are you doing in here, Granger? Potter and Weasely ate too much and had a case of the runs, is that it?"