Misunderstood Maledictions | Tomione

Have You Ever?

WHOOSSH! (There it went! Did you see the time as it flew by?)

Thursday, November 18, 1944

9:01 P.M.

Hermione burrowed more comfortably into the far right edge of her favourite leather sofa, looking directly at the frizzy-haired blond girl lying on the floor in front of the couch in the Head common room. "And you're certain that the midnight snack trips of random first and second years have been appropriately dealt with?" she inquired of the seventh year Hufflepuff prefect, Janabella Williard.

Janabella nodded with a grin. "Switched the password to the kitchens just like you said to. They actually have to tickle the pear on the painting now," she explained to the 20 or so other prefects and Tom Riddle. "The little buggers'll never figure it out."

At least not for a few decades, anyway.

Riddle actually shifted his stoic eyes toward Hermione, a definite mocking ring to his voice as he asked in a surprised tone, "You actually thought that up on your own, Nefertari?" He was seated on the same leather couch as Hermione, but over so far to the extreme left of it versus Hermione's extreme right, they may as well have been floating on different planets.

Hermione rolled her eyes, by now used to his derogatory remarks and thankful that they hadn't progressed to anything more physically hindering. "No, I usually hire a house-elf to do my thinking for me" –admiring chuckles from the prefects, several of whom actually began to applaud her ability to stand up to the covertly feared Head Boy— "annnnd that about wraps up our business for tonight, prefects. Good work. I'll open the floor up to any further comments or ideas before I say goodnight."

"We'll," Riddle interjected, his initially derisive voice suddenly quiet.

Hermione sighed in annoyance and reiterated, "We'll open the floor up to any further comments or ideas before we say goodnight." She hadn't the slightest idea how she was able to make sense of Riddle's "one word-ers" so quickly, but she was discovering she had the uncanny ability.

She immediately noticed seventh-year Gryffindor prefect Phyllis Hardiman and her fellow Gryffindor prefect Jacobson Andrews, the recipients of Key E and Key R, exchange some kind of eye communication with the other prefects before Phyllis raised her hand from her spot on the floor, her back resting against the tan divan.

Phyllis glanced briefly, almost timidly, at the Head Boy, and then quickly set her full concentration on the Head Girl. "Hermione, we have a strong suggestion for our Christmas activity."

Immediately, Hermione had a preconceived notion of where this conversation was heading, and she wasn't sure if she would be treading on friendly or enemy territory when it went there. "Yes?" she asked warily.

"The popular opinion is leaning toward a dance for the upper classes," Phyllis said, grinning at Ravenclaw Perecles Jeffries - and confirming Hermione's fears - before elaborating, "A Holiday Soiree."

Hermione could almost feel Riddle's gaze shoot over toward her, gauging her reaction to the proposition of a holiday dance, but she refused to look in his direction. Instead, she steadily focused on Phyllis. "Your proposition's sound, Phyll, but I'm—we're," she corrected with a sigh, "going to need more information before it can start to become a reality."

"Tell me what, and we'll get it for you," was Phyllis' instant reply.

Her mind kicking into complete Head Girl gear, Hermione ticked off her fingers, briskly running through the fastest preparation list she could throw together. "A date that's been cleared with administration, catering, attendance rules, possible entertainment—"