Chapter Text
Hermione
I woke to a piece of parchment on my nightstand.
I won't be in class today. Not feeling well. Didn't want you to expect me. I'll catch you later.
-Ron
Ron's attendance has been spotty for weeks, attributing it to illness or fatigue, though sometimes without reason. Today, he claims another sickness. I've urged him to consult Pomfrey, suspecting it's more than just an allergy or a stomach flu. With half of our eighth year gone, I worry that he may miss Holiday due to excessive absences. Insufficient grades could mandate a stay over the break to catch up, and with this being our final year, failure is not permissible. I conjure my uniform and make my way down the hall for a hot shower to rouse myself. With Ron growing increasingly distant, I find little reason to put in any extra effort.
I see him less now than when we were merely friends, and I've grown less interested in the chase. Occasionally, I question if it's only me feeling this way, or if he does too. Is it common for couples to begin drifting apart so soon? Our bond used to be solid as friends; we share a history. But our relationship has become increasingly infrequent with the sudden distance between us. His attention seems to be focused elsewhere, and I can't remember the last time he treated me like a girlfriend.
After getting dressed, I swing my knapsack over my shoulder and make my way to the stairs, quickly descending for Potions. Professor Slughorn has no tolerance for tardiness. Being late means being barred from class activities and having to pen a 10,000-word essay on punctuality and magical decorum. I'm determined not to make that mistake again.
Harry and Neville are already in class engrossed in conversation when I finally round the corner. I set my bag down and make my way across the room. “I didn't think you were coming to class; I didn't see you at breakfast this morning,” Neville speaks.
“I skipped breakfast to enjoy the shower room a little longer."
“Ron's been missing class quite a bit lately. I didn't realize he was so sick. Perhaps an ulcer?" Harry's brows are raised as if to question my knowledge. I shrug, at a loss for words. There's nothing to say because he's right. There's no point in defending him any longer when it's clearly evident.
“Do you think he will be well enough in time for holiday?” Neville cuts in.
"It's still a way away. There's plenty of time to remedy him. I haven't had time to sit down and talk to him about anything because he hides away in his room."
"Sweater Weather" by The Neighbourhood
Professor Slughorn enters the room, his brown robe trailing on the floor, carrying the scent of dust and parchment. We all wait patiently for the assignment. I can't help but hope for an early dismissal from class; I'm looking forward to sneaking away to Hogsmeade for some solitary time to clear my thoughts.
Slughorn strides to the table at the front of the room, sets down his potions text, and gathers several vials containing different liquids, alongside what appear to be herbs or possibly flowers. He then pivots to face the class, scans us briefly, and moves to stand at the head of the table, his hands neatly clasped before him.
“Good morning, everyone. I was glad to see everyone on time this morning, with the exception of a few absences. We are short three students today, so I will alter the original plan I had in place for partnering up. It looks like we’re missing…a Gryffindor and two Slytherins.” He speaks.
I glance around the room. In addition to Ron, Malfoy and Pansy are also absent. It's unusual for students to skip Potions class, which has always been one of my favorites, and I've never heard others express otherwise.
Slughorn sets a scroll on the table, and his quill levitates to the inkwell, taking a swift dip before it begins to scribble on the parchment. In less than a minute, with remarkable efficiency, the quill captures his thoughts on paper.
“You will each need to check the scroll to find your partner and seating information. I have partnered you with those who will best complement your abilities. In other words, those with whom you have similar characteristics. This is who your partner will be for the next few months. I understand this might be uncomfortable for some of you, but it is best to consider what you both do well and challenge it as a pair. Get comfortable with being uncomfortable!”
This pairing doesn't seem straightforward. I'm convinced he gazed right at me when he said it might be uncomfortable for some.
The door swings open, and Malfoy enters with a late but confident stride. He flashes a smirk at Blaise while heading to his seat. Over the past two years, Draco has evolved into somewhat of a sex symbol across the houses. His hair falls casually over his forehead; his limbs appear longer, and his shoulders broader; he's become leaner and carries himself with a swagger that suggests experiences in realms most of us are unfamiliar with.
The rest of us might as well be plain unsalted crisps, while he possesses the allure of a silver fox with eyes made to pierce. Women fawn over him, and he's aware of it, relishes in it. Yet, he remains entirely unapproachable, showing not the slightest interest in anyone. He has an unpleasant demeanor, and it's starkly evident.
I approach the scroll and run my finger down the list, observing that we're not exclusively paired with members of our own house. Some are matched with those of other houses. Similar characteristics? Complements our abilities? That seems redundant, trying even. If we're not paired with our housemates, it seems impossible to share the same characteristics.
When my finger stumbles upon my name, I nearly choke on saliva. Of all the others I could be paired with...this must be a fucking joke. My gaze meets his—ice blue, piercing as the winter breeze. He remains silent as our eyes lock, and it feels as though my lungs are pierced with shards of ice. I brace myself, anticipating some crude gesture from him. Instead, he props his feet up on the table and leans back. His mouth quirks up in a sly smile on one side, loosening his tie around his neck and undoing his top two buttons. He drapes an arm loosely behind his head, sleeves rolled up, showcasing the Dark Mark he’s so proud of.
“Wipe the slobber from your lip, Mudblood. You're drooling."