Hermione looked considerably better early Tuesday morning.
Her cheeks were bright and rosy, she had stopped sneezing entirely, and she raised her glass of orange juice toward the two bleary-eyed boys sitting further down the table with a cheerful smile by way of greeting.
Draco managed a faint nod in return.
This morning brought another lesson in Care of Magical Creatures.
"Spare me," Draco muttered to Crabbe and Goyle with feeling.
The latter two, however, appeared genuinely enthusiastic about Hagrid's class.
"That great oaf isn't half as demanding as Professor McGonagall," Crabbe said with a satisfied chuckle. "You just have to know how to bow."
"No homework yet, either," Goyle added airily.
Following the Hippogriff lesson's apparent triumph, the newly appointed Care of Magical Creatures professor had become more exuberant than ever.
Today's subject was the Bowtruckle — a tree-guardian primarily found in the forests of western England, southern Germany, and parts of Scandinavia. Hagrid had given each group a small potted tree, with a Bowtruckle concealed somewhere in its branches. The eight-inch creatures were a novelty, and the atmosphere in the class was lively.
"He originally wanted to start with Blast-Ended Skrewts," Ron murmured to Draco, glancing sideways. "Hermione talked him into saving those for later."
Draco cast an approving look at the girl in question — she was currently engaged in an animated discussion with Susan Bones.
Hermione Granger's quick mind had, once again, spared the world a great deal of suffering. She had evidently taken one look at Hagrid's lesson plan and sorted it out before anyone else had to suffer the consequences.
Draco never wished to encounter Blast-Ended Skrewts again as long as he lived.
"I do think Hagrid has a somewhat optimistic view of what constitutes an appropriate danger level for students," Draco said, his expression vaguely disinterested as he examined the hawthorn tree in front of him. "If he wants to keep his post beyond the first month, he ought to bear in mind that not everyone shares his constitution. The Board of Governors takes a keen interest in student safety."
Ron pulled a face but didn't argue. "Percy mentioned that in his third year they spent the whole term on Flobberworms. Mum would have a fit if she knew we were up close with Hippogriffs on day one."
"It's fortunate nothing went wrong," Draco said, locating the Bowtruckle nestled among the pale green twigs and watching it blink back at him. "Consider what would have happened had a student actually been struck."
Ron shuddered and firmly declined to consider it.
"Can anyone describe the Bowtruckle's temperament?" Hagrid asked with his usual beaming smile. "Hermione?"
"The Bowtruckle is a peaceful and extremely shy creature that feeds primarily on insects," Hermione answered fluently from the front row. "However, if the tree it inhabits is threatened, it will launch itself at any woodcutter or tree surgeon attempting to damage its home and gouge at their eyes with its long, sharp fingers."
Crabbe and Goyle, who had been surreptitiously reaching toward a branch on the neighbouring tree, quietly withdrew their hands.
Draco couldn't quite help laughing. Some of the grey mood of the morning lifted. He stroked the Bowtruckle in front of him gently; the little creature cocked its twig-like head and regarded him with curious brown eyes from behind the bark.
This was, he had to admit, a well-chosen subject for the lesson.
"Excellent — five points to Gryffindor." Hagrid was beaming, and Hermione looked precisely as smug as she had every right to.
"Has her cold completely cleared up?" Draco asked Ron.
"She's perfectly fine." Ron gave a shrug that managed to convey both relief and irritation simultaneously. "If you ask me, it was partly the cold and partly Trelawney winding her up. She was furious about what was said to her in Divination, and when I pointed out that she tends to be stubborn about admitting she can't do something — which is true — she refused to speak to me for the rest of the day." He muttered, darkly. "I was only saying what everyone was thinking."
"Hold on — she actually attended Divination?" Draco turned to look at Ron, his casual air evaporating entirely.
"Obviously. We all went first thing yesterday morning. We even said goodbye to you before we left for the North Tower — don't you remember?" Ron looked puzzled.
"Fascinating," Draco said, very quietly.
"What is?"
"Nothing. I've just remembered something interesting." He said no more, but his gaze drifted back to Hermione, who was now crouching beside Neville Longbottom, patiently helping him coax his Bowtruckle out of its hiding spot.
Ron described it to Harry later: it was like watching a cat rouse itself from a long doze and fix its attention, with sudden and complete focus, on a particularly interesting ball of yarn.
Draco Malfoy had begun watching Hermione Granger very carefully.
After lunch, he observed Harry, Ron, and Hermione heading in the direction of the North Tower. The walk from the main castle to the North Tower was considerable — there was no conceivable way to make that journey and return in any short amount of time.
And yet, at the precise hour that Harry and his friends were sitting in Divination with Professor Trelawney, Hermione Granger walked into classroom 7A on the eighth floor and sat down in the seat to his right, entirely composed.
She looked slightly out of sorts, and through the gap in her bag Draco could make out the spine of Unfogging the Future.
"Divination not going particularly well?" he asked, keeping his tone light.
"It's dreadful," Hermione said, apparently without thinking.
"I'm curious," Draco said, just as easily, "how you manage to attend two classes at precisely the same time."
Hermione glanced at him with an expression of slight alarm, then quickly and deliberately tucked something back beneath the collar of her robes. There was a brief flash of gold chain.
Draco gave her a long, measured look. She was hiding something again.
They had no opportunity to continue, because Professor Vector had swept into the classroom and instructed them to open their copies of Numerology and Grammatica.
"In our last lesson, we established that Arithmancy is built upon two very ancient principles," Professor Vector said, addressing her small class with brisk efficiency. "Can anyone summarise the core of each?"
Hermione's hand went up immediately.
"Miss Granger?"
"The first principle holds that a person's name contains meaningful information about their character and destiny," Hermione said, clear and confident. "The second was first articulated by the ancient Greek philosopher Pythagoras more than two and a half thousand years ago — he proposed that each number from one to nine possesses a distinct personality, and that these personalities can be used to understand the nature of all things."
"Precisely right. Five points to Gryffindor." Professor Vector gave a small, approving nod and turned to address the class. "Practitioners of Arithmancy combine these two principles and, through centuries of refinement, have developed complex systems for converting names into numbers and interpreting the results. Today you will practise one of the most widely used of these systems — one that extracts three primary numbers from a given name: the Personality Number, the Heart's Desire Number, and the Social Number."
Professor Vector was a composed, methodical woman whose manner was entirely unlike Professor Trelawney's in every conceivable way. She had dark hair worn severely back and always appeared in a neat set of deep maroon robes with a matching pointed hat. She was unsparing with students who were lazy or careless, but noticeably warmer with those who showed a genuine aptitude for the subject.
Draco approved of her, and he approved of the classroom.
It was clean and orderly. Equations were chalked neatly on the board; a large multiplication table was fixed to the wall beside it. There were no sagging armchairs, no stifling red lamplight, no guttered candles or scattered tarot cards or crystal balls filmed with dust.
He had never been able to work in a mess.
Professor Vector distributed numerical reference charts to each table and asked them to work in pairs, using the principles of Arithmancy to analyse each other's names.
The room filled with the quiet scratch of quills and the rustle of turning pages.
"Draco, what's your middle name?" Hermione asked as she wrote.
"Lucius. Same as my father." He glanced at her parchment. "Is yours Jean?"
"Jane, actually. Like my mother." She smiled.
"Is that right?" He raised an eyebrow without comment and made a small correction on his parchment.
They worked in companionable quiet after that, both murmuring calculations under their breath. The whole class was similarly absorbed.
After about a quarter of an hour, Hermione looked up. "How are you getting on?" She was already writing the final line of her working, clearly nearly done.
"Finished, actually." Draco consulted the chart and began to read. "Hermione Jane Granger. Personality Number: Seven. Cognitively gifted, intelligent, and perceptive — enjoys intellectual challenge and hard work. Drawn to mystery and the unexplained. Values originality and imagination over wealth or status." He paused. "Also: a tendency toward pessimism, sarcasm, and a certain… lack of personal security."
"I am not pessimistic," Hermione said at once. "And I'm certainly not sarcastic. And there's absolutely no question of any insecurity —"
Draco glanced at her sideways, recalling with perfect clarity some of the more cutting remarks she had directed at him in his past life. She had not held back then. "On the subject of sarcasm, I'd advise you not to underestimate your own potential."
Hermione made a noise of indignation. "What else? The Heart's Desire Number?"
"Heart's Desire Number: One," he continued, with a slight air of approval. "Fiercely independent, single-minded, honest, and determined. The sort of person who sets a goal and pursues it alone. Not especially interested in collaboration, and dislikes giving orders. May present as self-centred, somewhat wilful, and given to stubbornness —"
"Self-centred? Wilful?" Hermione leaned over his shoulder to peer at the chart, her voice rising. "Draco, are you quite certain you haven't made an error?"
"Entirely certain." He raised the parchment and chart for her inspection. "It's all there. I haven't invented a word of it." He glanced back at the page. "Social Number: Six. The qualities you project to others — harmony, warmth, loyalty. A strong sense of responsibility and a genuine capacity for love. Highly adaptable across different social environments."
"Well." She settled her chin on his shoulder, eyes fixed on the parchment. "At least there's something kind in there."
Draco moved to say something teasing, turned his head to do so — and stopped.
She was right there. Close enough that he could see the light caught in her eyes as they moved across the page. Close enough that the scent of her hair reached him faintly. Her chin rested against his shoulder, and he could feel the small vibration of her breath as she murmured along with what he was reading.
Whatever sharp remark he had been forming dissolved completely.
He looked at her, without meaning to, and smiled.
Hermione finished cross-checking the numbers and charts and sat back.
"All right," she admitted, with considerable reluctance. "You're right. I suppose I never imagined I was carrying all that around inside me."
She turned her face toward him, meaning to give him a look of long-suffering, and found him smiling at her — a quiet, unguarded smile, entirely without performance.
Oh. Her thoughts scattered. His grey eyes were very close, and she was startled to find that she could see herself reflected in them.
A faint warmth crept up into her face. She turned away quickly, making herself very busy rearranging the parchments on her desk. "I've already calculated yours, if you want me to read it."
The warmth left Draco's shoulder all at once, and a vague sense of disorientation followed.
But there was a slight blush on her cheeks, and he felt unexpectedly pleased. "Go ahead. I'll pass you the chart."
"Draco Lucius Malfoy. Personality Number: Nine." Hermione found her place and began reading very quickly. "Nine represents completion and fulfilment — a natural inclination toward service to others. Suited to roles as a teacher, scientist, or leader. Tireless, driven, often an inspiration to those around them." She paused. "Also: a degree of arrogance, and a tendency toward self-righteousness when things don't go according to plan."
"I'm sorry — arrogance?" Draco said, in a tone of genuine affront.
Hermione pressed on without mercy. "Heart's Desire Number: Two. Inner harmony, loyalty, a strong sense of responsibility, and exceptional fairness." She slowed down slightly. "However — Two also represents contradiction. The intersection of opposing forces. Day and night, good and evil —"
"This is complete rubbish," Draco interrupted, a faint flush creeping across his face despite himself. "You're describing someone with the temperament of a — what's the Muggle expression — a split personality."
Hermione laughed aloud.
Her earlier unease had dissolved entirely. She looked at him with something approaching delight, and continued: "People associated with this number may be introverted, withdrawn, prone to moodiness, indecisive, and deeply introspective —"
Draco let out a low, pained sound.
She clicked her tongue with great satisfaction and tilted her head to observe him. "My poor, introverted, withdrawn little thing —"
"Please," he said, with real feeling, "don't call me that."
"Your Social Number is Seven. The qualities you project outward: sharp intelligence, perceptiveness, a love of hard work and challenge. Serious, academically minded, drawn to mystery and the unknown. For you, originality and imagination hold more value than wealth or status —"
She paused there and looked at him with clear amusement. "Truly? Draco Malfoy would give up a fortune for the sake of his imagination?"
"Imagination —" He had given up the pretence of dignity somewhere around introverted and withdrawn. He glanced at her. "I suppose it depends on the imagination."
She caught his gaze briefly, then looked back down at the parchment. "Also: a tendency toward pessimism, a fondness for dry wit, and a certain lack of personal security."
She stopped again, expression shifting to something softer and more genuinely curious. "Lack of security?"
"Don't forget your Personality Number is Seven as well," he said, before she could pursue it. "We have that in common, apparently."
Hermione shrugged, seeming to find this unexpectedly satisfying, and turned back to her charts without argument.
"So," Draco said, keeping his voice easy, glancing toward the back of the classroom where Professor Vector was reviewing calculations with another student. "About your timetable."
"Draco, we are still in class," Hermione said, with a reproachful look, and promptly turned around to ask Professor Vector a question about the conversion method with every appearance of deep scholarly interest.
He watched her profile — earnest, attentive, completely closed off to further enquiry — and felt entirely outmanoeuvred.
She was avoiding the question, and she had made up her mind to keep doing so.
Cunning girl.
In the days that followed, the pattern became clear. Any time he showed even the slightest inclination to ask about her timetable, Hermione deployed the personality analysis like a well-aimed Stinging Hex.
She would look at him with theatrical pity and remind him that he was, according to Arithmancy, a deeply introverted, withdrawn, and emotionally insecure young man.
"Keep your voice down, it's embarrassing enough — fine, I won't ask again," Draco said, his face going slightly pink. Being pitied was bad enough. Being called a "poor little thing" — in a tone that somehow managed to be both exasperating and oddly affectionate — was considerably worse. It left him entirely wrong-footed.
Hermione observed his uncharacteristic fluster with visible satisfaction and graciously let the subject drop.
Then, after class, apparently worried he might reconsider, she gathered her books and slipped away before he could say another word.
Draco sat for a moment in the now-empty classroom, genuinely taken aback.
For the first time since his rebirth, his self-possession had taken a small but distinct knock — he had spent an entire lesson being condescended to by a girl, who had then fled the scene before he could recover himself.
All because he had asked one perfectly harmless question.
So much for treating friends with honesty.
He wrinkled his nose, came to a decision, pulled a fresh piece of parchment from his still-untidy desk, wrote quickly, shoved his things into his bag, and made his way to the Owlery.
Joan was resting on one of the higher perches, leisurely preening after the long journey back from Egypt. She let out a pleased sound when she spotted him.
"Take this to my grandfather, please. Be careful — don't let anyone intercept you." He stroked her head, rolled the letter into a small scroll, and tied it to her leg.
The letter read:
Dear Grandfather,
I hope you are keeping well. I have arrived at Hogwarts safely — there is no cause for concern.
I have a question for you. Is there any form of magic that would allow a person to be in two places at once?
I hope you will forgive the strange enquiry.
Your thoroughly bewildered grandson,
Draco.
Joan regarded him with steady, trusting eyes, gave the back of his hand one affectionate peck, and launched herself cleanly from the perch. She was a pale shape against the sky, and then she was gone.
Coming down from the Owlery, Draco made his way toward the library to finish the Arithmancy assignment he'd abandoned earlier. As he rounded the corner near the library entrance, he caught a cluster of third-years in animated conversation:
"— yes, Professor Trelawney said so —"
"— that someone would leave us forever, this very year —"
"Terrifying!"
"It might not even be true. There were rumours someone spotted Peter Pettigrew in a village nearby —"
"He could be headed for Hogwarts! For revenge, do you think — is it Harry Potter or Draco Malfoy he's —?"
"Still deciding?" Draco walked around the corner and addressed them with a pleasant lack of expression.
They buried themselves in their books. Not another word.
Good.
Sybil Trelawney, self-styled Seer and theatrical fraud. Whether she was alarming students in Divination or had her prophecies seeping into the corridors via gossip, Draco had no patience for it.
He was in a perfectly fine mood. The rumours had nothing to do with it. And neither did the fact that Hermione was keeping secrets from him.
He straightened his robes, found he had entirely lost interest in the library, and turned to go — and walked directly into Marcus Flint, Captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team.
"You! Perfect timing." Flint's broad face split into a grin. "Quidditch trials are next week. Pucey, Bole, Derrick, and the rest have already put their names forward —"
"Put mine down too," Draco said.
"Brilliant." Flint looked thoroughly satisfied. "Can't think of anyone I'd rather have as Seeker. If we're going to take the Cup this year, it comes down to you. I trust you've been practising over summer?"
"Every day," Draco said. "Rain or otherwise."
"Good man." Flint clapped him on the shoulder, then reached into his robes. "Nearly forgot — Dumbledore asked me to pass this along." He handed Draco a sealed envelope and moved off down the corridor, presumably to locate the rest of his team.
Draco turned the envelope over in his hands. Why would Dumbledore be writing to him?
He opened it. Inside was a short note, written in the headmaster's looping hand:
Draco,
Please come to my office at four o'clock this Tuesday afternoon.
The password is: Cockroach Cluster.
He folded the note and pocketed it with a quiet sigh.
What an unpleasant end to an unpleasant day.
He was in no fit state to sit across a desk from a wizard whose eyes had the unfortunate habit of seeing rather more than one wished them to — not like this, not today.
And what could Dumbledore possibly want with a quietly-behaved, unremarkable third-year student?
Nothing good, in all likelihood.
Draco yawned, tucked his bag under his arm, and turned toward the headmaster's office with all the enthusiasm of a man walking toward something he'd already decided he didn't want.