Slow Grenade

Chapter Twenty-Three

Rounding the final library corner, Hermione found Draco sat gingerly in an armchair. Acting on impulse, she leant over him and started checking his body for bruises. "Merlin, Draco, are you okay?" she whispered.

He flinched as she touched him, but shook his head. "I'm fine."

"You're clearly not, come on, we need to go and see Madam Pomfrey."

"No, Granger, I don't want to," Draco said firmly.

She sat on the arm of his chair, gripping her hands together to stop herself from running her hands through his hair.

"That was awful," Hermione breathed. "I can't believe he did that to you, he's a Professor for Godric's sake. You could have been seriously injured."

Draco was angry; he wanted to take it out on someone. "Granger, stop. If you're going to fuss, I might as well go to Pansy."

"Yes, right," she replied and moved to the seat opposite. "So, why were you goading Ron this time?"

"I knew it. It's always my fault isn't it? Did I deserve what I got? I'm surprised you're even talking to me after what I called you at the World Cup."

There was a pause. Hermione tilted her head. "What is this really about, Draco?"

He scowled and remained silent.

Eventually, Hermione padded back over to him and sat on the arm of his chair again. To both of their surprise, Draco pulled her onto his lap and buried his head in her neck. She sat awkwardly for a moment before leaning into his chest.

"My father was one of the Death Eaters torturing Muggles after the Quidditch World Cup."

"I wondered whether that might be the case."

Draco sighed. "All summer he's been having these 'meetings' with other people I can only assume must also be Death Eaters. He – he asked me to join them sometimes. Luckily, I had plausible excuses each time, but what happens when I don't? What happens when I'm expected to be there? Why don't I get a fucking choice?"

Hermione wished she knew what to say to make it better, but she couldn't think of anything. So she just pushed her body closer to him and he tightened his arms around her.

"So, when Moody did that to me, I just thought, here it goes again, yet another aspect of my life I have no control over. And will there be any retribution for it? I doubt it. No one gives a crap about me. Just imagine if a teacher did that to Saint Potter, they'd probably be in Azkaban by now."

"Draco – ", Hermione breathed. "I care. I care about all of those things. I care about you."

He rested his forehead against hers. "Maybe, but who am I to you really, in the scheme of things. You've got Potter and Weasley."

Draco's warm breath tickled her cheek, she could smell peppermint. Hermione wanted to show him how much he meant to her. That yes, Harry and Ron were her friends, but Draco was more than that. She glanced down at his lips and her heart pounded so hard she was sure he could feel it.

She swallowed, unable to summon her Gryffindor courage. "You're my best friend, Draco."

He leant back; the moment, lost.

"Yeah, okay," Draco sought for a change of subject. "What's in the box?"

Hermione recovered quickly. Leaving the safety of his lap she stood up and sat again in the chair opposite, lifting the aforementioned box from her satchel. She took off the lid and showed him the contents. Inside were about fifty badges, all of different colours, but all bearing the same letters: S.P.E.W.

"Spew?" he asked, picking up a badge. "What's this about?"

"Not spew," Hermione replied primly. "It's S – P – E – W. The Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare."

"I've not heard of that before."

"No, well you wouldn't have. I've only just started it."

Draco frowned. "How many members do you have?"

"Well, if you join, two."

Hermione brandished a sheaf of parchment at him. "I've been researching it thoroughly. Elf enslavement goes back centuries. I can't believe no one's done anything before now."

"You know they like the way things are? After Potter wrongly freed Dobby, our other elves were in uproar about it."

She narrowed her eyes but chose not to broach the Malfoy elves just yet. Recalling Draco's earlier comments, she said, "Don't they deserve a choice?"

He glowered. "Are you sure you weren't meant to be in Slytherin?"

"Two sickles to join, that buys a badge, and the proceeds can fund our leaflet campaign."

It was Friday the 30th of October, and delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang were due to be arriving at Hogwarts for the Triwizard Tournament at any moment.

The evening was cold and clear; dusk had almost fallen and a pale, transparent-looking moon was already shining over the Forbidden Forest. Hermione was standing between Harry and Ron, shivering in anticipation for the new arrivals.

"Nearly six," said Ron, checking his watch and then staring down the drive which led to the front gates. "How d'you reckon they're coming? The train?"

"I doubt it," Hermione replied.

"How then? Broomsticks?" suggested Harry, looking up at the starry sky.

They scanned the darkening grounds excitedly, but nothing was moving; all was still, silent, and quite as usual. Hermione was beginning to feel cold and wished the two schools would hurry up.

She didn't have to wait long before each arrived with grand finesse: one enormous horse drawn carriage and another magnificent ship that rose from the lake.

After some time, all students were seated back in the Great Hall. Hermione was already exasperated at Harry and Ron's fascination with Viktor Krum. She could acknowledge that he was very skilled at the world cup, and he might be somewhat attractive, but at least she could remain composed in his presence.

"The Tournament will be officially opened at the end of the feast," Dumbledore announced. "I invite you all to eat, drink, and make yourselves at home!"

The Great Hall seemed somehow much more crowded than usual, even though there were barely twenty additional students there; perhaps it was because their differently coloured uniforms stood out so clearly against the Hogwarts robes.

Hermione kept glancing over at the Slytherin table towards Draco, they had barely spoken since she hadn't been able to garner the courage to kiss him. She wondered whether he was avoiding her. Every time she attempted to make eye contact, she ended up with Krum's attention instead, why did he keep smiling at her?

The feast eventually came to an end and Dumbledore stood again to address the room. "As you know, three Champions compete in the Tournament, one from each participating school. The Champions will be chosen by an impartial selector... the Goblet of Fire."

Dumbledore took out his wand and tapped three times upon the top of a nondescript casket. The lid creaked slowly open. Reaching inside, he pulled out a large, roughly hewn wooden cup. It would have been entirely unremarkable, had it not been full to the brim with dancing, blue-white flames.

Placing the Goblet carefully on top of the casket, Dumbledore continued, "anybody wishing to submit themselves as Champion must write their name and school clearly upon a slip of parchment, and drop it in here."

The noise of chattering in the Great Hall slowly rose as students grew increasingly more excited. Hermione rolled her eyes as she overheard Fred and George Weasley's ideas to manipulate the age line around the Goblet.

"It'll never work," she crooned.