Misunderstood Maledictions | Tomione

The Thin Red Line

Sunday, October 5, 1944

9:47 A.M.

"Hey, Nef, is the strawberry-rhubarb jam over by you?"

"Erm... I think it's right down there, D, do you see it?"

"Oh yeah, I see it." Draco spotted the jam halfway down the Gryffindor breakfast table in front of the teenaged Professor McGonagall. Without hesitation, the first-class flirt leaned as far at he could get over his former teacher, the edge of his fingers just brushing the glass jar. He grabbed it and pulled back down to his seat, winking at McGonagall and drawling, "Morning, sunshine."

When McGonagall actually blushed slightly and smiled back at Draco, Ron snorted and hid his face behind an edition of The Daily Prophet, Ginny pretended to stick a finger down her throat and throw up, Hermione rolled her eyes and wrinkled her nose in agreement, and Draco popped the lid on his strawberry-rhubarb jam, preening.

After several squabbles, much confusion, and some lonely dinners, the separated six had agreed upon a general rule of thumb regarding their seating arrangement at meals: Breakfast at Gryffindor, lunch at Ravenclaw, and dinner at Slytherin. Lavender had sportingly offered to sacrifice eating at her table, saying, "They're Hufflepuffs, guys; we just talk about peace, love, and happiness. After a while it gets a bit boring."

"Hope dear old grandfather and grand-Lestrange don't mind me sharing all their women, but what can I say? It runs in the family," Draco remarked with an offhanded grin, holding up his orange juice-filled goblet in a partial toast in the general direction of the Slytherin table. "Thank you, grandfather!"

"Sssssh," Hermione laughed, reaching over his plate and pulling his hand down. Straightening the dark chiffon scarf that she had tied loosly around her neck, she waved her yet-empty plate at her still-wet shower head, fanning it and silently urging it to dry faster. She felt her attention unintentionally drawn to a certain haughty looking, platinum-haired older teenager at the Slytherin table, however.

Harry leaned his head down close to hers, his bright green eyes following her line of sight and landing on... "Calugala Malfoy. Can you believe it, that bloke has already approached me twice about entering certain underhanded operations of the dark side. Kept wanted to know why we transferred, why we transferred." To this last phrase, Harry added a whiny edge that Hermione could easily associate with any Malfoy, evil or not.

"The first time," Harry continued in a low voice, "I told him that we had come to study the strange cycles of an exotic and rare mushroom plant indigenous only to the Forbidden Forest. Apparently, that didn't fly with his superiors, so on Friday he asked me again. I told him we were actually here on a highly classified government surveillance exercise that required us to search for a peculiar breed of pure-blooded animals often thought to sport white hair and known for their trademark snakelike characteristics..."

Hermione spluttered and covered her mouth, laughing. Her shoulders began to shake violently, and she buried her head in the table to cover her mirth. To her right, Draco, oblivious, began to massage her back with his left hand, munching on his strawberry-rhubarb bread and surveying the Great Hall, predator-like.

Hermione could almost hear the frown in Harry's voice as he mused, "I haven't really decided if he's figured that one out yet or not..."

"Speaking of figuring it out," Draco cut in, catching Harry's last comment and, luckily, not his first, "How's the 'I Spy on Snake Eyes' going, Nef?"

Giving up with her hair-drying attempts, Hermione shrugged, picking a small red apple off the fruit basket and taking a bite out of it. "I... see him in the morning now, in the common room," she said, chewing and swallowing, "But never at breakfast."