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It wasn't often Hermione needed help.
Even in the rare event that she ever did need help, it was even more rare that she'd go to the extent of asking a Slytherin, but here you were, staring at a Renaissance painting of a very plump lady. She was staring at you expectingly, yet somehow, her expression was also faintly disgusted.
You look down at the note Granger slipped you earlier, during Charms… that was something else you wouldn't have ever expected of her. When had she turned into a rule-breaker?
Your eyes run over her cursive, old English-esque handwriting, reading over the paper one last time…
"Do not make it obvious you've got a note on your desk! Make sure to smile and nod at Flitwick every so often, that usually does the trick….
It's Hermione Granger. I know you've got Divination still— you'd better not mention it to any other Slytherin soul, but it's my only weakness. Remember Transfiguration? You still owe me a favour."
You'd forgotten about that… once in either fourth or fifth year, she'd allowed you to peek at her middle term exam, and it saved you from failing. It surprised you that she even still remembered that, but then again, her memory and intelligence surpassed the best of even the Ravenclaws. Admittedly, she's… an impressive student.
"Eight o'clock. I assume you know where the Gyriffindor common room is. Speak 'honeycomb' aloud, and the painting should swing out of your way. For both of our sakes, keep your head low… my dorm's the third door to the left."
For a long moment, you stare blankly at the painting concealing Gryffindor's common room, watching the depicted woman take a generous and expectant sip from her wine.
Why were you even going through all of this effort? Helping Granger wouldn't provide you with any personal gain… which was usually the only reason for which you did anything.
"… Honeycomb," you speak begrudingly.
The voluminous lady raises her brows at you.
"You're not a Gryffindor," she says passively, and a nail file seemingly materializes out of thin air in the painting's frame. She holds her palm out in front of her round face, fingers folding over it as she grabs the file and moves to shape her nails.
Without hesitation, you remark, "Fortunately not."
Maybe this wasn't the right time to be snarky. The woman only seems to become more adverse to you, her thin brows furrowing your way.
"You've got some nerve—"
"And I've got less patience," you interject, feeling more and more inclined to turn and leave each second. "So either do your job or quit wasting my time."
Clearly, no Gyriffindor had ever dared to give her this level of attitude— you didn't spend much of your time dwelling on that, however, because she swings out of your way without another word.
You shove Granger's note into the pocket of your trousers and stroll into the Gryffindor common room.
It was odd, experiencing a common room that wasn't all the way down in the dungeons of Hogwarts. Instead of the views of the mermaids beneath the Black Lake that you were used to, this room's altitude provided picturesque sights of the courtyard. You could even faintly see the greenhouses, along with the Quidditch field's vibrant house colors. It was very warm and cozy in here… sickeningly so.
Looking to your right provides you with the image of that one Longbottom boy— his name escapes you in the moment— reviewing what looked to be History of Magic textbooks in an aggressive manner. Cramming just before an exam is definitely something you're familiar with. On the other side of the common room, you're not surprised to see the younger Weasley boy sucking face with Lavender Brown. They've been all over each other all year, and it wasn't any of your business, but you originally thought him and Hermione had something together… perhaps not?
You reach up, rubbing your forearm as you try to avoid looking at anyone else (and in return, possibly someone noticing you're completely out of place). The stairs to the dorms were easy to spot, and you guessed that the one not currently guarded by Finnigan and Thomas led to the girls' section. Your movements are brisk as you move to the staircase, fingers trailing up the railing as you make your way up. The phrase third door to the left replays in your mind.
Passing by, you can hear Gryffindors giggling and chattering with each other. You can't help overhearing— these girls gossip more than you would expect. Isn't this house supposed to be the honest, kindhearted one…? Eventually, you reach Hermione's door.
You rap against the door twice, tapping your foot impatiently… the last thing you wanted was for any of those rumour-spreading third and fourth years to spot you. In a day or two, how a Slytherin girl was caught in the Gryffindor common room would be the talk of the school.
"Granger?" you call after a few silent beats, growing a little anxious. "C'mon, I'm not going to wait all night to give you free labour—"
The door swings open, nearly smacking you in the nose, and Granger pulls you by the collar of your shirt inside. You stumble over your own feet at her surprising force— was that the same arm you heard about her socking Draco in the face with?— and your back hits one of the posters of another student's bed as the door quickly clicks shut after you.
"You're late," she snaps at you, stepping over all of the textbooks splayed over the dorm's various rugs and flooring… all of them seemed to be taken personally from the library, flipped to random pages detailing aspects of tea leaf reading and images commonly depicted in crystal balls. You're not used to hearing her lose her temper like that— were you really that late?
"You can't get mad at me for being 'late' to something like this," you scoff, immediately resorting to defending yourself— that was Slytherin instinct, anyway. "This favour? It benefits me in no way."
"It's called owing someone," she emphasizes before cutting herself off with a low, frustrated sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. She turns from the door, letting her hands fall back to her sides as she steps over the heaps of textbooks to get to her bed. Her pillows had been almost entirely replaced by parchment and crumpled papers.
The first thing you noticed (after the library books covering the floor) was that none of her roommates seemed to be here— the room was empty, save for the two of you.
"Merlin, you gonna axe murder me?" you mumbled, rubbing the back of your head as it had banged lightly against one of the posts. Luckily, there was no bump forming. "You get rid of any potential witnesses?"
"Axe— what? No!" Granger exclaims. As usual, she was taking things way too seriously, taking your banter as genuine concern. "No, I just… didn't want anyone seeing us together."
You raise your eyebrows at her, a little smirk curling your lips. "Embarrassed?"
She huffs at that, sitting down on the edge of her mattress, her fingers running over the red comforter. "Don't act oblivious… You know why."
Of course, you knew. A Gryffindor and a Slytherin not at eachothers throats? It was about as rare as Professor Snape cracking a smile. Even though you and Hermione were from rival houses, you found yourself more at ease in her presence than you were even with some of your dormmates— not that you'd ever admit that to her aloud. Whatever this was between the two of you, an odd relationship or rivalry… it didn't require the two of you to hold hands and talk about feelings.
You watch the stars twinkle out of the dorm windows for a moment—the sky seems darker every minute. You figure it's best that you get this over with as soon as possible. Do whatever favour she needed, set things equal between the two of you, and hopefully never have to see her face again… she was smart-mouthed, annoyingly chatty, a teacher's pet— everything about her made you tick.
"So…" you begin, letting your eyes roam around the room, your tone mockingly casual as you step over books toward her four-poster bed, "how'd you convince them to leave you be for the night? The other girls?"
Her eyes lift from the parchment she was scanning over, and she seems thoroughly annoyed that you're not on topic. For whatever reason, she answers anyway.
"Lavender," she speaks in an exaggerated lovestruck tone, one that reminded you of how the Weasley boy sometimes droned on about her, "goes out every night to snog that git anyway… so she didn't need much convincing."
You sit beside her on the mattress, and the bed dips slightly under both of your combined weight. "I thought you liked that 'git'," you mutter, copying the tone she'd used with the insult. "You know… the one that's flat broke?"
That makes her scoff again, though this time it's almost as if she's a little too swift with her response, much too strong in her distaste to actually be genuine (rather than sounding like she's coping). "Ron? As if…"
Granger drags on a little, you notice, muttering things beneath her breath that sound much like 'that's ridiculous' and various other colorful insults aimed toward that one Weasley in particular. You didn't know all too much about Ron, but you do seem to remember him glaring enviously at Krum when he was dancing with Hermione at the Yule Ball. Was any of that drama your concern? No, but you found yourself disliking Ron just a little more on her behalf…
"And the others?" you ask, watching the way her fingers sort expertly through the layers of parchment, her signature cursive handwriting scrawled across each sheet.
"Parvati's catching up with her sister in Ravenclaw Tower, and the others are off doing who knows what… I couldn't care any less," she mumbles absently. At that moment, her eyes widen as she flips to one parchment in particular, setting all of the others aside. You catch the title, writing in perfect loopy handwriting across the top: Personal Dream Analysis.
"You mentioned something about Divination," you remember aloud.
She nods affirmatively, pushing the parchment into your lap and retrieving a quill from her nightstand.
"I… I know what you're thinking," she starts suddenly, her voice low and hesitant as her eyes lift to yours, searching for something… for a beat, you wish you could know what it was that she was looking for. "Something like, 'You're taking runes now, Hermione, why do you need help in divination?', right?"
You had no idea she was taking runes this year… because you didn't pay much attention to anyone other than yourself.
"Right," you mumble.
"It's because it's not my essay I need help with… It's Harry's," she groans, seemingly completely oblivious to your blatant lying. "He's done a lot for me, so I agreed to finish this essay for him so we could consider things even, but…"
"But.. you haven't got the slightest idea what to write?" you guess. The very thought was a little unfamiliar— Hermione Granger not knowing what to do in any given situation was something equally rare as her asking anyone for help.
"Not that," she murmurs, moving to tuck a strand of her unruly curls behind her ear. She shuffles off her slippers, positioning herself up against the headboard with a sigh. "I just… can't stand to even think about it… I get flashbacks to Trelawney…"
You can't help but let out a short laugh, but that quickly gets cut off with a venomous glare from the girl at your side.
"Sorry," you say. Even after you apologize, you're still giggling a bit at the memories of her nearly tugging her hair from her scalp during your old Divination block. "You always seemed so stressed when Trelawney was going on about crystals and planet alignment and whatnot…"
Her eyes lift to yours, and she seems fatigued just from the memory of it all. "Don't remind me, please…"
You offer a light smile her way— why were you smiling?— and move to lie on your stomach, parallel to where she was currently sitting against the headboard, pushing a few books carelessly out of your way. A soft 'thump' sounded against the rug beneath her bedframe with each textbook that fell. At first, you see her tense, ready to protest against your actions— but for whatever reason, she stills herself instead. You think you catch her chewing the inside of her cheek…
You cross your arms beneath your chin, letting your wedges slip off your feet and clatter softly onto the floor. You never imagined you'd be lounging this casually beside her, but here you were, reaching for the parchment on her lap. Your fingers brush her red cable-knit sweater in the process, and you try to ignore how the light bit of contact makes your breath a little shallow.
"Your problem," you start quietly, spreading the parchment over one of her pillows so you could read her hieroglyphic writing more clearly, "is that you look at everything with logic, Granger. Haven't you ever acted on a feeling?"
That hits her harder than you thought it would, and you can see it, sense it in the way her body tenses again, the way her large brown eyes avert to anywhere but where you lie, and narrow with something you can't discern.
"What do you know about feelings?" she huffs, all defensive, and you ignore the way that stupid, petty insult actually makes your heart sting.
"Okay," you mumbled with a tilt of your head, doing your best to keep your casual composure, "fair. Slightly deserved… but I'm serious. It'd do you good if you stopped thinking so hard all of the time."
She doesn't turn her face toward you again, but her eyes cannot help but land on yours again, and for a beat, you stare at each other, both looking for something you can't put into words.
"… The essay," she reminds you timidly, breaking the tension, and pushes the quill into your hand.
You wanted to curse the damn essay aloud, but the practical, Slytherin side of you interrupts— have you forgotten what you're here for? Get this over with, and quit psychoanalyzing.
"Right," you said quietly, and for the first time in a while, you feel like you've been knocked down a peg, like you were stupid for sitting here, oggling her… Merlin.
Your head turns toward the parchment. She's already got the introduction and closing remarks over with— what she needs you for is the actual dream analysis.
"Did Potter tell you which dreams he had in mind?" you ask, already beginning the first paragraph. "And how many inches of parchment?"
She shakes her head, fiddling with a loose thread at the hem of her sweater. "No, he just insisted I make it up, and that one sheet should be enough."
You nod, and easily, the tip of the quill flies across the parchment. It was easy for you to write about things like this without overthinking. When it came to Divination, neither Trelawney nor Firenze wanted complex logical thought. The reason why Hermione had been so bad at that subject was that everything needed to make sense for her mind— every problem needed a solution, each question needed an answer. With dream analysis, things were more open to interpretation, and it was different for every person. You were writing in first person, reminding yourself to remain in the mind of Harry Potter… the starting paragraph was analyzing the meaning behind a dream of having infinite galleons, the middle about falling from the very top of the astronomy tower, and the last about dancing with mooncalves.
"What were those patterns left by mooncalves thought to be again?" you ask absently, nearly done with the last paragraph.
She replies instantly with what you're sure is the right answer, but her voice is much too quiet, as if not to disturb the silence of the dorm. You shift your gaze to her face, your own showing clear confusion.
Letting out a frustrated huff, she turns over, copying your position on her mattress— now you're both lying on your stomachs, facing the headboard.
She's so close when she reaches for your hand, slipping her quill from your fingers and moving to finish the last sentence herself.
The Mooncalves' dancing patterns were originally believed to be elaborate crop circles.
Her handwriting's a stark contrast to yours— that's fine, this is just a draft for Harry to copy— but it only reminds you of how drastically different the two of you were.
Your breath grows shallow again. You can feel hers wisping against your cheek.
Stupidly, you turn your chin just enough to meet her eyes, throat bobbing… why were you acting like some besotted schoolgirl? Maybe that wasn't too far off from what was really going on here, but even so…
Your eyes meet.
Her expression is that of a frightened Mooncalf (annoyingly ironic). Her lashes flutter against her cheeks, as if she's only now realizing how close she'd gotten to you, the reality of the lack of space between you only now sinking into her mind.
You hear her swallow. Then she starts to shift away.
You don't know what possesses you to do so— even for a Slytherin, this was ambitious. Maybe impulsively idiotic as a better way to describe it, but… your hand shoots out, encircling her wrist. Her skin burns into your fingers. A soft gasp escapes her.
Your grip on her loosens as you realize you'd been lightly squeezing her arm— much less firm, but still there. You don't want her to pull away, and still, you're ignoring the reason that you need her so close.
"I thought I asked you to stop thinking so hard," you mumble, finding yourself inching closer to her, your eyes falling away from hers, but only to refocus on the softly trembling curve of her lips.
Her eyes widen to the size of saucers, not only at your closeness, but in realization of where you're now looking.
"I… I don't…" she stammers, her usual intelligent confidence now nowhere to be found. It seems as if you've influenced her completely, perhaps for the worse. "Ron…"
"Who?" you scoff, your eyes narrowing on her lips. You were so used to getting what you wanted— that was what being a Slytherin meant— but this? This was entirely on her. Her decision to make. Her person to choose, if even just for one night.
She thinks you're being completely serious, and hesitantly repeats the name to try to jog your memory. "Ron Weasley, the one with—"
"I know who he is," you force out, meeting her eyes again. You can feel her pulse flutter beneath your thumb, and she blinks quickly, as if she can't believe what she's seeing. "I'm saying I don't care. Do you?"
It frustrates you that her answer isn't immediate. She's on the fence, and you can see it in the way her eyes shift away from yours again, two sides of her warring with one another… you'd easily convince her, if she'd let you. "I…"
"He doesn't see you, Hermione," you insist, starting to sound just the slightest bit desperate. Your hand moves to let go of her wrist, but only to flit up to her chin, your fingers ghosting over the side of her jaw, which makes her still even more. "The prat's out there snogging Lav. You can do so much better than him. Show him you can."
Her brows pull together, and her eyes shift back to yours… clearly, the bloke meant a lot to her, because she looked almost pitiful. You wish that she'd just stand up for herself, because Merlin, her beauty was nearly devastating.
Her breaths were short, uneven, her mannerisms like a startled finch. You don't know if you're imagining things, but you think you see her gaze slip to your lips for half a second…
"I don't know how to do this," she speaks shakily, which only serves to frustrate you even more. What is it that she's so scared of? If it turns out to be you, you're not so sure you could bear it…
"Don't you?" you ask, your voice uncharacteristically soft, because of course she brought that out in you. "I'm sure I saw you and Krum—"
"With a girl," she clarifies, cutting you off despite how timid her tone is, and suddenly, everything seems to make sense then. "I've never done this… with a girl."
That makes your lips curl up. You don't know what you were expecting, but it wasn't this. You thought that she would've had more reservations about you being a Slytherin rather than another girl like her.
You let your thumb slip over her cheek, running over her bottom lip. Feeling over it, you notice it's lightly chapped and just a little red— had she been worrying it with her teeth?
"D'you want to?"
She swallows again, her eyes shifting to your lips, though now, they don't immediately flit away.
"With you?" she whispers, inching closer still, beginning to tilt her head like she was preparing to fit her lips against yours. "More than I should."
As soon as you move your thumb, she pushes forward and meets your lips. She kisses you as if she hadn't done it right that second, she would've realized that she was looking at you this way and freaked out.
Your eyes fly open wide— then immediately screw shut, but the kiss ends as suddenly as it began…
You blink rapidly, a little dizzy when she pulls back with a gasp.
"Merlin," she breathes. Clearly, that was pure instinct, and she hadn't really thought her actions through, because she's panicking now, but all you can focus on is her lips. "I'm sorry! I should've asked if—"
That's when you take the initiative and kiss her, properly this time, your hand moving into her unruly brown curls… her skin was softer than Puffskein fur. You wondered how Weasley could give someone so divine up… in comparison, Lav was revolting. She yelps muffledly in surprise before she finally leans in and stops thinking so damn hard.
Surely, this didn't have to be anything overtly serious— some impulsive side of you just wanted to show her that Ron Weasley was not the end-all, be-all of all romantic interaction.
She could do so much better. Even if you aren't exactly the best influence on her, at least you're able to grasp some semblance of her beauty. You'd gone through the motions yourself— going from one boy to another insolent boy until realizing something you'd never forget. The only people who could understand what a girl wants— what she needs but won't speak aloud? Other girls.
Your free hand finds its way around her waist. The finished essay sits forgotten on the pillow beneath you… before Hermione shoves it to the floor like it had personally offended her.
Definitely not the best influence on her.