understanding

This is, in a lot of ways, my first ever true fanfiction...and it is my first Harry Potter fanfiction...and it's also D/H, so if you don't like that subject I'd advise not reading it. xx;  If you like it or don't mind it, though, please tell me if it sucks or not... if it doesn't I might continue on with  it.. ^^;

This is also, like most fanfictions, a what if fanfic... asking what if Draco had to take Muggle Studies with Hermione. ^^; The Professor for this class is not named or characterized in any way because I don't know who teaches it or what they're like and I don't want to...infringe on J.K. Rowling I suppose. o.o

Okay, that's all. ^^;
-----

Hermione Granger walked into her Muggle Studies class early.  She set down her heavy bag, grateful for the relief of its burden.  Other students trickled in slowly, many of them with bored or reluctant expressions on their faces.  Hermione supposed she couldn’t blame them—in comparison to their other courses, Muggle Studies was even more boring than History of Magic.  For them, at least—Hermione had yet to encounter a class that failed to fascinate her (excepting Divination, which, in her mind, did not even deserve the honor of being referred to as such).  She sat quietly as she watched the room fill.  Her eyes widened in shock as the last student slunk in, a scowl on his thin, pale face.

“Draco Malfoy?” she couldn’t stop herself from asking aloud.  He trained his icy gaze to her and drawled acidly,
“Not surprised to see you in here, Mudblood…”

Hermione pursed her lips shut, her face flushing with anger.  Several of the others, all Gryffindors, glared at Malfoy furiously.  Muggle Studies was a class that was supposed to be taken by the Gryffindors and the Slytherins, but the occasion that a Slytherin deigned to take the class was rare.  The Professor quieted the class before Hermione could retort, and she pushed his presence from her mind in order to concentrate.  After the class, she hung back, and she noticed that Malfoy was slow in leaving as well.  The professor and all the other students had cleared out.  Hermione drew a breath, and asked,

“Why are you in this class if you hate Muggles and…” she paused, not wanting to say the word. “and… people like me… so much?”

“Don’t really see how that’s any of your business, Granger,” he muttered, shouldering his bag.  She frowned.

“Is it just not possible for you to be civil at all?” she demanded, her voice high with frustration.  He stopped, looking at her closely with his narrow, pale eyes.  She reddened, but stared back defiantly.  Finally he said,

“Think of it as keeping your friends close but your enemies closer, Granger.”

He left briskly, leaving her alone in the room.

*

“Maybe he’s finally gone completely mad,” Ron offered.  Hermione was back in the Gryffindor common room, discussing the earlier events with her best friends Harry Potter and Ron Weasley.

“Something seems off to me…” Hermione muttered.

“I think you’re reading too much into it, Hermione,” Harry said lightly.  Both Ron and Harry were preoccupied with essays for their Potions class, work which Hermione had already done.  They were not even looking at her as they talked.

“Maybe so,” she conceded. “But he was the only Slytherin in there…he didn’t even have Crabbe and Goyle with them.”

“I’d advise not worrying about it too much,” Harry said. “Who cares what he does with his free time, anyway.”

“’Spect you’re right,” Hermione said, her head in her hands.  But she was still bothered, and she added abruptly, “I’m going to go study in my room.”

She pushed away from the table and gathered her books, disappearing into the girls’ dormitory.

“Wonder what’s got into her,” Ron said, his eyes still on his parchment.

*

Draco lay in his bed with the Muggle Studies book propped up against his knees, trying to make sense of the explanations offered for the non-magic way of life.  He was, as always, operating under the desires of his father, who thought it would be beneficial for his son to learn about this alternate existence.  Draco had argued, of course, but he never won against his father.  So he appealed to his mother, but unfortunately she seemed in complete agreement with her husband (though, he imagined, for different reasons).  The worst of it was that not one other Slytherin took the class, which meant that he had to spend an hour of his life every two days with nothing but Gryffindors.  The thought of having to keep his mouth shut in their presence boiled his blood.  Not to mention he would have to endure Granger and her insufferable, know-it-all attitude.  He cursed at the book, with its chapters on electricity and cars and movies and television.  The explanations for each were in-depth and peppered with complicated, unfamiliar terms that he did not at all care to learn.
Crabbe and Goyle, two neanderthals without an ounce of intelligence between them, suddenly barged into his room, triumph on their faces.

“We finally found you,” Crabbe said. “Where’ve you been?”

“Class,” Draco said shortly, stuffing the book under his pillow.  How embarrassing it would be for his friends to know he was studying Muggles.

“Which class?” Crabbe pressed, apparently completely oblivious to Draco’s concealment of his text.

“Uh…Divination,” he said.

“But we were just there,” Crabbe said stupidly.

“Well, maybe you didn’t notice me,” Draco snapped, rising from his bed and stalking past them irritably.  Crabbe and Goyle looked at each other, confused.

“But we sit right next to him.”

*

As the weeks went on, Draco was finding it increasingly difficult to both do well in the Muggle Studies class and to keep it a secret from his friends.  He couldn’t grasp the long, technical of the muggles’ myriad inventions.  His mind seemed unable to interpret it as anything but nonsense.  Ordinarily he would have just forgotten about it and made some excuse for his poor marks, but the letters from his father made it painfully clear that he wanted his son to do well in all his classes this year—regardless of the subject.  Because of this, each hour of Muggle Studies was doubly frustrating—first, because he had no idea as to what was being talked about, and second, because he knew the consequences for his lack of understanding would be severe.  He couldn’t believe that one class could generate so much stress, and it he was having a great deal of trouble hiding the strain.  It had reached the point where he was too distracted to even torment Granger.  Unfortunately, she had noticed.  She approached him after class, and the look of concern he saw in her eyes made his stomach churn.

“_What_?” he said, before she even opened her mouth.  Her eyes clouded.

“I was just going to ask—“

“Well, don’t, because I don’t want to hear it,” Draco broke eye contact, focusing instead on gathering his books.  Granger’s anger was almost palpable.

“Look,” she spat, slamming her hand on his desk.  “You don’t like me and I…” she faltered, causing him to look back up at her.  Seeing this, she regained strength and finished,
“I… I don’t like you..”

“But?” he said, staring at her with cold focus.

“_But_…” she faltered, her cheeks flaming.  He stood there, quiet.  She lost her nerve.

“Nothing. Forget it,” she muttered, starting to turn around.  Draco, suddenly realizing her aim, reached for her, grabbing her wrist.  He pressed his thin, pale fingers against her skin, speaking softly.

“You want to help me?  Why?”  he squeezed her wrist, and she winced, biting into her lips. “Do you pity me?”

“No,” she whispered. His grip tightened.

“Do you know how it would look if anyone saw you helping me?”

“Well…we don’t need to broadcast it to the world..” she said faintly, her expression contorted in pain.  He let her go.

“I would sooner die than accept help from a Mudblood,” he sneered.  Granger’s eyes trembled, filling with tears.

“F…fine!  I don’t even know why I asked!” she cried, storming out.  Draco watched her go, wondering why he suddenly felt sick.  He stared at his hands, though all he could see in his mind’s eye was Hermione’s distraught face.  He realized that he didn’t quite know the reason for his reaction—it just seemed like the natural thing to do.  The sickness he felt rising inside him sharpened as he further realized that achieving passing marks on his own was not really all that feasible.  Sighing in a way that was almost a groan, he picked up his books.  He was about to do something very painful.  He just hoped it was worth it.

*

Hermione’s body shuddered with sobs as she ran through the corridors, wondering what made her think that Malfoy would accept her offer.  She wondered what made her even think to offer.  After all, it wasn’t like she missed his constant provocations.  Going through the day without hearing him jeer at her was actually quite a nice respite.  And there was no dispute that he certainly didn’t deserve any help.  But…

“Oh… I don’t know,” she said aloud, her voice cracking.

“What?  Granger doesn’t know something?  Better call the Daily Prophet,” Malfoy’s voice answered her, and she turned on her heel to find him standing before her.  Her hands were shaking, and it took every ounce of willpower to prevent herself from slapping him directly across the face.  But she noticed that his words lacked their severe edge, and his expression bore no malice.

“What do you want,” she hiccuped.  Her eyes were runny, her cheeks were red and puffy, and her bush of hair was more unkempt than ever.  She was almost ashamed to stand under his gaze.  Malfoy did not answer for a long time, as if he were having difficulty with what he was about to say.  Finally, he mumbled,

“’M sorry.”

Hermione blinked. She swallowed, wiping her tears on the sleeve of her robe.

“Wh…what did you just say?”

He gave her a pained look, as if to say, “Please don’t make me repeat myself.”

“Why?” she managed.

“Why does anyone say sorry,” he answered sullenly, pronouncing the last work as though it hurt for him to say it.  Silence followed, broken by Hermione’s voice.

“Do you want me to help you?”

He didn’t reply, only nodded slowly.  She rubbed her eyes, clearing her throat.

“Okay.”

More silence.  Draco shifted uncomfortably and then reached into the pocket of his robes.  He withdrew a kerchief and took her wrist again, pressing the cloth into her hand.  He then turned quickly and hastened off in the opposite direction.  Hermione clutched the kerchief between her fingers, wondering if their exchange had actually happened.

END

I might continue this, someday.  When my passion for HP is rekindled, which, I assure you, it will be.  Just don't know when.