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If Draco was proud of only one thing, it was that he never let an opportunity for wallowing pass him by. The pain of dealing with great disappointment could, in his opinion be alleviated by selecting the right location for one's moping. Somewhere under a cloudy sky, (if not amidst an outright downpour or thunderstorm, which was more aesthetically pleasing, albeit riskier to Draco’s health) worked well, and sub-zero temperatures were even better. There should be low light and dark stone (the Manor was perfect, for this if nothing else), wind to stir his hair and whip his robes, pinken his cheeks and wet his eyes.
Which was why, after a particularly taxing day, a day in which he’d been subjected to targeted and cruel wrongdoing, become the undeserving casualty of a terrible offence, a heinous crime, his heart a blameless victim, Draco retreated to the most environmentally hostile place he could think of for some tragic contemplation of his misfortune. Some railing against the unfairness of the world, a nice bit of self-flagellation. Perhaps later, a little dramatic pebble-throwing.
The Black Lake also had the advantage of being visible from the north side of the castle, specifically Gryffindor Tower. Should Granger peer out of her dormitory window, perhaps wondering at his whereabouts, his general wellbeing, harbouring some concern for his happiness after the devastating events of that day, she might see a handsome, tragic figure silhouetted weather-beaten but standing tall against the light of the moon.
Draco let the cold sink into his skin, fancied he enjoyed the numbness spreading through his fingers as he picked up a stone from the muddy ground. To match his heart, he imagined with no small amount of tragedy. Hard and cold. Unfeeling.
Or, not his cold unfeeling heart, a small part of him whispered viciously. The part that had, after all, been raised by Lucius Malfoy.
Granger’s heart.
Except the other part of him, the part that was taught to know better by his mother, couldn’t quite believe that.
Because it was a baffling circumstance, but Draco had begrudgingly established some months ago; he quite liked Granger.
Or he had. Past tense now. Obviously.
He didn’t like her anymore.
Even if it was the case that she was the only person who’d pair with him in classes (for the benefit of her grades, she’d said at first). Even if she was a bit obsessed with house-elves, which in anyone else he would have thought was unhinged. Even if she insulted him, could tell a gleeful inconvenient truth, was sharp and ambitious and cared a ridiculous amount for people and things that weren’t herself (or him). Even if he smiled occasionally now. Laughed, even.
Even if she made his stomach feel like it was folding up on itself, and his chest devoid of anything but his beating heart.
He didn’t like her anymore.
Because liking her had brought him here. To the shore of the Black Lake in midwinter, his dreams in tatters and his hopes in shreds.
So that was the end of that.
He let the stone loose onto the surface of the lake, hoping it would bring some small catharsis, maybe ease his woes.
Or, he tried to. Only; the pebble thudded where it should have skipped, and skidded where it should have sank.
It was unfortunate that much of the theatre of throwing pebbles into the Black Lake was lost when the lake was frozen solid.
Draco kicked the ground and cursed his rotten luck. He hoped he caught hypothermia (imagining a reunion scene where Granger wept over his unconscious form in the hospital wing), or broke his toe (she assisted him in hobbling back to the castle). Maybe he could conduct a daring rescue of the giant squid (could it breathe under all that ice? Did it need to? Regardless; she would present his Order of Merlin herself. Declare him hers to the Daily Prophet , kiss him in full view of Weasley), or better yet, fight off some wicked creature from the forbidden forest, rescuing the entire school and earning the admiration of the wizarding world (and Granger’s heart, of course).
Alas, Draco feared not even major heroics or extreme friendliness to magical creatures could succeed where his plan had already failed. His painstakingly thought out and executed plan. His flawless romancing of Hermione Granger.
Staring out over the icy surface of the lake wallowing in his misfortune, Draco discovered he could squeeze out a single satisfying tear if he started unblinking into the wind for several minutes.
He should have been used to extreme disappointment by now.
It was only that he’d been so sure. He’d laid the groundwork. His plan had been fool-proof, and allegedly, neither of them were fools.
Draco had been told under the schooling of Narcissa Malfoy that gentlemen didn’t need such pedestrian things as declarations of devotion. It was, common, vulgar even, to simply tell your desired partner of your affection.
You had to show them first. Words were nothing, she’d said, without the actions to back them up. Plebian. Entirely meaningless (unless they were spoken in French or Italian. Welsh, maybe. Granger, sadly, spoke halting French, two words of Italian — grazie , buongiorno — and no Welsh at all).
And so, Draco had arrived at Gryffindor Tower that morning to collect her, ready to reap the rewards of weeks of careful practical romancing. To ask her finally, properly, sincerely, if she would do him the honour of accompanying him to the upcoming Yule Ball.
He’d been waiting at the portrait hole to walk her to breakfast (she appeared as always thrilled with his timely arrival), and listened intently whilst she told him about her evening (homework, some knitting). She’d noticed he was wearing the socks she’d gifted him (“They’re very warm,” he’d said, which was true. They were also very lumpy, which he didn’t mention) and he pulled out the bench at the Gryffindor table (disrupting a few lower school pupils Draco cared not a bit for) and served her the most optimally cooked egg before leaving her temporarily.
Collecting her after breakfast she surrendered her bag without complaint (after some initial outrage, and repeated assurances he did not think her incapable, she’d acceded to this gesture back in November. The eventual appearance of a second bag sealed the permanence of the arrangement. “It’s wonderful not being limited to how many books I can bring!”) and Draco escorted her to the dungeons, stopping a safe distance away whilst she used the restroom (the only time he attempted to escort her inside he’d been told in no uncertain terms never to repeat the action).
He opened the door for her despite the 37 textbooks (in addition to his own) weighing him down and pulled out her stool for her. She beamed.
And then, for reasons Draco couldn’t justify, he went entirely off plan.
He was supposed to ask her in the herbology garden; where he might pick a winter-blooming flower, tuck it behind her ear, or something equally romantic and devastating. He had some talking points about her attributes. The things he could offer her.
Instead, he did... Well, what he did.
Their forgetfulness potion received full marks from Slughorn (“Excellent work, Granger,” he said, forgetting Draco’s existence entirely, as many of the teachers habitually did after the vanishing cabinet debacle). Granger had grabbed his forearm in excitement, and looked for a moment, as though she might hug him. Draco was giddy, and Granger’s cheeks were flushed. They were both high on academic success and possibly potions fumes and Draco, in an uncharacteristic fit of spontaneity transfigured a pink snapdragon (for romance, and affection) from some unused salamander entrails, shoved it into her hand and said, bizarrely, and without including any of the lines he’d practised;
“Allow me to escort you to Hogsmeade tomorrow, Granger.”
It distantly occurred to Draco that this was not what he’d intended to say at all. Hogsmeade held none of the appeal of the Yule Ball. No holding her hand, no looking into her eyes. No mistletoe.
Draco winced as he heard a collective gasp from the class, allegedly engaged in packing up, and one snicker which undoubtedly came from Theo.
Still. He attempted to convince himself that this was not disastrous; he had caught her staring at his quidditch thighs on more than one occasion (during quidditch, naturally, but also when he slid in next to her in the library, or as he knelt to fetch her books. Twice, shockingly, as she daydreamed during History of Magic), had noted the blush of her cheeks as their fingertips grazed in exchange of parchment or potions ingredients, had to his bafflement and delight concluded that she was still as susceptible to his charms as many ordinary women, verified genius though she may be, from the way she peered at him from underneath her lashes, and touched her face when he complimented her.
He smiled tentatively. Her gaze darted from the snapdragon to his mouth. His heart leapt. He was hopeful. She might say yes. Merlin, was she going to kiss him? He wasn’t prepared for that. He’d neglected to do a breath-freshening charm since lunch. He—
But then Granger, a smile still lingering on her lips, frowned and said; “This is a lovely bit of transfiguration, Draco.”
Draco hesitated. He’d been expecting a blush, maybe some mild swooning (only mild; it was still Granger after all), a fit of giggles or a stuttering agreement.
“Thank you?” he said, somewhat unsure.
When Granger did not appear to have more to add, he pressed bravely on, lowering his voice in tone and volume to ensure she knew she was being seduced. “Hogsmeade, though? We could look at quills in Scrivenshaft’s.” He did his best with the opportunity he had. Granger loved any tool of intellectualism.
“We don’t want to go to Hogsmeade so close to Christmas. The crowds will be awful.” She shook her head regretfully, and Draco’s stomach plummeted.
“Or Madam Puddifoots?” He had committed now. He had no other choice. A location famed for its romantic virtues might be enough; cosy armchairs in flowery patterns positioned close enough for their knees to knock. The floral scent of tea in the air and sugar, hopefully on Granger’s lips. The implication, he thought, was clear.
Granger finally drew her gaze from the snapdragon with a look that was definitively more assessing, more scientific than romantic.
“Why?” she said.
When Draco merely gaped, the tentative hopes he’d been slowly building for their lives together crumbling at their foundations she continued.
“I don’t need a quill, and we have tea in the common room. And in the kitchens.”
Draco was admittedly stumped. It was, of course, completely true.
“Yes.” He conceded, then, for lack of any other persuasive argument, he nodded. “An outing to the kitchens then?”
The house-elves might be enough, if he was nice to them, to convince her he was worthy.
“Not now, Draco,” Granger said, further confusing him by laying her hand on his chest. He’d previously considered his pectorals a non-platonic area, but Granger was forcing him to rethink “I think I’d better go to the library. You’ve reminded me I need to revise my elemental transfiguration.”
And then, as though to demonstrate her absolute aversion to his presence, she did exactly that.
Draco, at a loss for anything else to do, eyed the forgetfulness potion contemplatively, wishing to erase all evidence of this humiliation, this assault, this massacring of his dignity, even as he was unwilling to repeat it accidentally.
Blinking rapidly away the sudden onset of potion fumes, Draco gathered the tattered remnants of his pride and retreated to the lake for some dramatic pebble-throwing.
“So, that went well.”
Draco paused his pacing of the lakeshore, wishing he still had the stone in hand so he could lob it at Theo’s head.
“I don’t believe it did, actually” he sighed.
“No?”
“No.” It was in fact, a catastrophe of epic proportions.
But Theo was certainly not the person whose attention Draco had hoped to attract with his antics. He turned his back, hoping Theo would take it as a dismissal. This had always worked with his previous minions.
“Where could you have gone wrong?” Theo sighed, at least understanding, the seriousness of the situation. “Could it have been the obscure language of flowers? The request to be her escort? The way you’ve been behaving like a human packhorse?”
Draco realised then how very much he missed Greg and Vince.
Not deigning to respond, he bent and searched for a new, bigger stone.
“She’s not watching you know,” Theo said, conversationally.
“How would you know?”
“Gryffindor Tower is to the south. The one you’ve been glancing back at every 15 seconds? That's the Divination tower, you numpty.”
Draco threw the stone with a quiet, frustrated whimper.
Theo heard, of course.
-*-
After spending the entire weekend nursing his ego, Draco managed to drag himself to History of Magic where Theo proved himself even more unhelpful. Draco had skipped breakfast (love-sick people couldn’t eat; this was well known) and his skin was pale and wan (in fairness, it always was) and he took the seat next to Theo with much resignation, looking forlornly at his usual desk.
Theo made a great show of shock (“What’s this Draco?” “I am a mere mortal with whom you do not deign to speak.” “Okay, fine, don’t hit me.”) as Draco wrestled him off the unoccupied desk. Weeks of carrying Granger’s textbooks had left his arms in much better condition than Theo’s and the tussle thankfully resolved in his favour.
Draco was still feeling a little sore. The moonlight tantrum had helped of course, along with several whiney entries added to his journal. He had allowed himself a small (thirty seconds only) dry-eyed weep before falling asleep on Friday. And Saturday. And again on Sunday. He’d indulged in a lonely, snowy walk to Hogsmeade, visited his owl and told him of his troubles.
And he’d come to class resolved to move on. To distance himself, and begin to worry more about what he was going to make of himself as an almost-convict, and less about the questionable taste of a woman who Draco was trying not to hold in such high regard.
That was until Granger, scowling, had dropped her bag down next to Draco with what he took to be great irritation. In any other lesson, he doubted she’d have tolerated being so far from the front.
“You could’ve warned me you were busy this morning, I was beginning to rely on you,” she said somewhat indignant and furiously attractive. Then Draco noted the absence of her usual second bag, the extra colour in her cheeks from carrying the first. “And now I find you’ve left me for a reprobate.”
“I prefer ‘ruffian’,” Theo winked.
“No offence Theo,” Granger added as an afterthought.
Draco, having assumed Granger would want to put all this awkwardness, their entire eighth year perhaps (might as well be rid of their seventh too, whilst they were at it) and his unrequited liking behind him, was not able to respond and only gazed at her in what he hoped nobody would notice was adoration.
Theo made a sickly sort of noise in his throat.
After several moments of silence, Granger put her hand on Draco’s forehead. “Are you alright, Draco? You’re very pale.”
He was. He’d contracted a mild cold thanks to his time by the lake, and sobbing before bed wasn’t good for anyone’s constitution, but he was feeling much better just by being in her presence.
“I saw you walking to Hogsmeade without your cloak. Were you trying to catch a cold?”
Draco detested himself slightly in that moment.
“It’s been a tough weekend, Granger,” said Theo with faux solemnity. “He suffered a vicious romantic rejection he’s unlikely to recover from.”
Granger looked uncomfortable, refusing to meet Draco’s eye, her mouth opening and closing. Draco resisted the urge to reach across and stab Theo in the leg with his quill.
“Wh—?” She started, then appeared to think better of it. “Well,” she said with put-on carelessness, shuffling her books. “It’s their loss. They must be very foolish.” And then Granger went about her usual History of Magic routine.
Which would have been fine, except this involved her eyes occasionally resting on his person, which he couldn’t fathom considering the previous Friday when (Draco hated to remind himself) she’d expressed disdain for his advances and probably his entire existence. Draco ended the morning feeling more emotionally unstable than when it had begun.
They continued in this vein for over a week; Granger going on as though the events of Friday never happened, and Draco mourning the future he’d envisioned with her, whilst simultaneously basking in her unexplained presence.
She sat next to him in every lesson. Nudged his hand when she thought he wasn’t paying enough attention. Pressed her forehead to his shoulder when she answered a question wrong in Ancient Runes (she was horrified, truly).
And Draco was failing in his attempts to stop himself from liking her.
How could he?
He’d never admired a person’s scowl before. Couldn’t even find the damp end of her quill on her lower lip repulsive (quite the opposite in fact). He anticipated her irritation with glee and paid more attention to her ramblings than those of their professors. Draco had wanted to be better his entire life, even when he’d appeared on the surface to think he was superior to anyone; he’d never had a good reason to try properly until Granger. He wanted to deserve her so badly; not deserving someone had truly never occurred to him before.
And all of these overwhelming thoughts and feelings were interfering with his ability to be angry about what on earth Granger was playing at. Was she unaware of the rules of courting? The proper behaviour for after you’ve smashed someone’s heart to pieces. Or maybe she’d simply forgotten?
A solution struck him part-way through Astronomy.
“You didn’t sample the forgetfulness potion did you?”
It would explain the oddness of her behaviour; maybe she’d been so horrified by his proposition she’d forced herself to forget it.
“No,” she said, offence clear in her tone. “It wasn’t me who scored an ‘A’ on my Defence homework.”
It was true; he’d not allotted sufficient time for it, with all the pining he’d been doing.
“Well,” he countered, “how would you remember if you had?”
Granger raised a sceptical brow, and then, to Draco’s horror, she began to recount the events of the lesson in excruciating, horrifying detail. He was tempted to excuse himself to the lake once more.
Except, Draco realised, her retelling wasn’t accurate.
“—And then you started on some nonsense about buying quills and drinking tea, but I needed to get to the library because I was jealous of your transfiguration.”
This, in Draco’s opinion, bore no resemblance to the reality of that interaction.
She had, rather abominably, left out all of the parts where she’d turned down his proposition. Rejected his advances without thought for his emotional state or his ego. Neglected to acknowledge the part where she’d stomped all over his heart and then jumped about gleefully in its pulverised remains for good measure.
And he wasn’t going to argue. He didn’t want to remind her, or himself of all that. It wouldn’t even be worth the satisfaction of beating Granger in an argument (which he was sadly yet to do).
So instead, he abandoned his telescope and asked Professor Sinistra. “May I be excused?”
He then stomped through the snow to find a quiet place for some self-commiseration (he knew exactly where he was heading), leaving both Granger and her bag behind.
-*-
It didn’t change her behaviour, of course.
The Christmas trees went up and mistletoe loomed above them (“Look, Draco.” Granger pointed it out above them more than once. “Mistletoe.” Draco promptly incendio’d it, to spare her — and him — the embarrassment of having to reject him again), and still Granger partnered with him and talked to him and sometimes, Draco forgot that he was upset with her altogether.
Until he remembered he didn’t have a partner for the Yule Ball. And neither did Granger.
As Draco’s dreams of waltzing her around a magically frosted, mistletoe-bedecked room faded, other men’s convictions it seemed, only strengthened.
Anthony Corner tried to romance her with a rare edition. Granger promptly donated it to the school Library in confusion.
There were murmurings that Weasley was hoping for a reconciliation (“No chance”, said Granger with venom. “Is it too much to ask? For a man who can emote .”) and Seamus Finnegan tried to tempt her outside to watch ‘a firework display’. Granger, naturally, took it as an attempt on her life.
And then Ernie Macmillan gifted her a dozen blood-red roses in the entrance hall (how gauche, Draco thought. How unsubtle) and asked if Granger would dance the opening number with him. Granger declined most unceremoniously (“God, no,” she said. “I’m terrible at dancing. You’d be better with Eloise.”).
“You shouldn’t let them down so gently, Granger,” Draco said, once he was gone.
“What do you mean? Gently?”
“I mean he practically screamed his undying adoration to the entire school.”
“No, he didn’t?” Granger sounded mildly confused, which was unlike her.
“Red roses? Fireworks and rare editions? Trips to Hogsmeade?” he said with emphasis.
“What are you talking about?” Her eyes were wide and her bottom lip caught between her teeth.
Merlin help him.
“Granger—” Draco cut himself off before he made a fool of himself again. “I have an appointment.”
“ What are you doing at that lake, Draco?” she said, and Draco thought she sounded frustrated. And then, a moment later, unsure. “I hope it’s not the person who didn’t want you. You can do better than that.”
And she looked so sad that Draco couldn’t even be angry, but he was already on his way outside doors and he needed cold air to kick-start his brain and stop his heart from running away with itself.
“Pair of idiots, both,” Theo chuckled, patting Draco on the back as he passed.
-*-
Pebble in hand, Draco tried to sort through it all.
Draco was no idiot.
And Hermione Granger was supposed to be intelligent: this was a fact. Universally accepted, robustly evidenced, documented and verified. Her deeds of brainy heroism were recorded in newspaper headlines (and more sombre-toned crime reports) and court records, enquiry papers and think pieces. Discussed over tea in Diagon Alley (“brightest witch of her age, you know.”), not to mention memorialised in the many, many monuments - an expression of bookish concentration she insisted she didn’t like captured in gold and copper everywhere from the Ministry Foyer to the Forest of Dean - to her intellectual achievements scattered throughout wizarding Britain.
And yet.
Their potions interaction should have been enough to indicate something was amiss about Granger’s alleged cranial superiority. But alas, the events of the war had managed to dent Draco’s ego somewhat, and at the time it had felt fathomable to him that she was simply declaring her disinterest. He’d struggle to believe it of anyone who hadn’t treated him with disdain before the war. But Granger famously had.
The answer came to him in a bolt of inspiration.
Hermione Granger was an idiot.
He should have suspected it all along. Evidence in support was available if only a person were inclined to look for it.
There was the misguided choice of Weasley as a romantic partner (thankfully promptly rectified), and the selection of Harry Walking-Deathtrap Potter as a friend. Her thankless affection for the ugliest cat the world had ever known. Her refusal to acknowledge the efficiencies of flying.
But most of all, Draco realised, was her particular density to every romantic proposition. Even from a bachelor as eligible (not as eligible as he’d once been, but significantly eligible nonetheless) as himself.
He’d seen her ignore romantic advances from half the school; including several first-years and men who had accosted her on one of their (non-romantic) trips to Hogsmeade.
And letting them down gently was all very well when it was one of those unremarkable specimens she was refusing.
Less so when it was Draco himself. Whose figure and brain she demonstrably admired. Whose jokes she found amusing. Whose huge mistakes she had somehow forgiven.
Draco dropped the stone he’d cradled in his palm.
The snow drifted and the ice glinted and the smell of holly and brandy warmed the wintry air.
He still had herbology; their final lesson of the day.
Draco wiped his eyes. The time for sulking was over.
The time for decisive action had come.
-*-
Dear Auror Potter,
As an upstanding member of society and fellow hero, I feel it is my civil duty to inform you of a spate of most abominable crimes that have today taken place, at Hogwarts.
You see, I was unlucky enough to be one of only six pupils reputationally damaged enough (or swotty enough, in Granger’s case) to return to school when we’re no longer legally obliged.
This has resulted in excessive time spent with exciting characters like Anthony Corner, Eloise Midgen, Ernie Macmillan. And Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger. The Perpetrators of these crimes.
It has become clear to me, that The Perpetrators share a mutual attraction which is thankfully beyond even their comprehension. I admit it has been something of a source of amusement to me.
Until now.
I enclose a report of my observations so you may begin bringing charges against these delinquents. I am as yet unsure of the specific crimes committed, but they are surely numerous.
I would be happy to testify to the emotional and physical suffering inflicted on me in front of the Wizengamot, the Azkaban guards, or anyone else you deem necessary.
Yours dutifully,
Theodore Charles Ulysses Nott III
A Factual and Unexaggerated Account of the Numerous and Undignified Crimes of Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger.
On the afternoon of the 21st December I, Theodore Charles Ulysses Nott III, being a dedicated, punctual student, made my way to Greenhouse 6 for our final lesson of the day, Herbology.
On my approach, my longtime housemate and general wimp Draco Malfoy (DM) overtook me at speed, and shouted, utterly unprovoked.
DM: You absolute wanker, Nott.
Upon arrival, I observed DM being directed to don his earmuffs by Professor Sprout (ProfS) prior to entry, due to the presence of mature unpotted mandrake.
I do not use earmuffs, as they pose a threat to my appearance that I am unwilling to tolerate. I risk-assessed the situation and determined to remain outside the greenhouse and observe DM’s actions. He does not often run, you see. It’s deemed uncouth in our circles.
He approached Hermione Granger (HG) and the following conversation was overheard.
DM: GRANGER!
This was communicated at a volume sufficient to make my ears ring, even from outside the greenhouse.
DM: I NEED TO TALK TO YOU.
HG shook her head and pointed to her earmuffs. It became clear to me that HG was unable to hear DM. A problem I regretfully did not have.
What followed was attempted communication in a sign language hitherto undocumented
DM poked himself in the eye, thumped his chest, and then tapped HG in the breast area.
I wondered if I should intervene, but was confident in the continued obliviousness of DM and HG to each other’s feelings. I judged the danger to be primarily to DM, which I found acceptable.
HG shook her head again. I was unsurprised DM had not realised the earmuffs were impeding HG’s hearing.
DM appeared both crestfallen and frustrated.
HG: WHAT?
DM unhappily observed my presence through the window, appeared to murmur a small prayer and then returned his attention to HG.
DM: I LIKE YOU, GRANGER.
HG: WHAT?
DM: [somehow louder] I LIKE YOU A LOT HERMIONE.
HG: [Tapping earmuffs] WHAT? I CAN’T HEAR YOU.
ProfS confirmed the repotting of all mandrakes and gestured for students to remove their earmuffs.
DM and HG did not notice this development.
DM: I LIKE YOU, GRANGER.
HG: I LIKE YOU TOO, DRACO.
DM: [voilently] NO GRANGER. I MEAN I LIKE YOU ROMANTICALLY.”
This caused justifiable sniggering from the class.
HG: WHAT?
DM: I WANT TO BUY YOU QUILLS.
I began to worry at this point, about what this development may mean for my emotional well-being.
HG: [Loudly, confused] I DON’T NEED QUILLS.
I took a precautionary defensive stance, afraid this reminder of a prior humiliation may cause DM him to resort to unforgivables.
DM appeared to calm himself. I was satisfied the risk to myself was minimal.
DM: [Hoarsley] I WANT TO KISS YOU.
I considered looking away but still hoped HG might misunderstand his intentions.
HG: WHAT?
DM placed a hand on HG’s shoulder. HG appeared lost for words, which I thought was a concerning indicator.
DM leant towards HG. I anticipated his next actions with some nausea.
I hoped she might slap him.
HG placed her hands on DM’s upper arms. I observed her flushed skin did not appear to be the result of spellcasting. I tasted a bit of vomit when I realised she was rising to meet him.
TCUNIII: Please Merlin, no.
HG and DM then engaged in some initially tentative kissing, which escalated quickly to become a sloppy, groping display of overt sexuality.
I attempted to close my eyes but, much like watching a broom-collision, was unable to
ProfS ushered the class from the greenhouse, I assumed to spare their souls from the type of damage being done to mine.
I determined further observation would be unnecessary, and detrimental to my health.
I considered obliviating myself but heroically opted to do my duty and ensure justice is served.
Traumatised sources have confirmed HG and DM continued their cavorting all evening and, many pupils were seen in distress throughout the night.
-Fin-