A/N: Why hello there. HOW ARE YOU ALL. COMMENT REVIEW POWER STONES AND OTHER STUFF. I'M LAZY RN. This chapter is a bit short.
Narcissa was very happy on the day summer drew to a close — the same day Draco Malfoy received his Prefect badge.
"I knew you'd get it, Little Dragon!" Narcissa said, smiling. "Your father was a Prefect too."
She turned to her husband, who was engrossed in the newspaper, and said with obvious pleasure, "Lucius, aren't you going to say something? Look what our son has received! Aren't you proud?"
Draco looked at his father expectantly, hoping for approval, hoping for praise.
But Lucius slammed the paper down to reveal a cold, indifferent, joyless face.
He glanced at Draco with arrogant disinterest and said, addressing his wife rather than his son, "Receiving a Prefect badge is standard practice for the Malfoy family. There's nothing remarkable about it. It would be remarkable if he hadn't got it."
Then his tone sharpened. "I would far rather he had done better on his final examinations. At the very least, he could have outperformed that Muggle-born girl."
Draco's face fell immediately. The small, fragile warmth that had just begun to kindle in his chest went out.
Granger. That Muggle-born. First again.
When he'd seen that ranking, Draco had spent an entire day hurling books around the family library.
On what grounds?
Why was she always first?
Why did she have to be so intelligent?
And why — why — even when Draco was safe within his own Manor, could her name still appear out of nowhere and knock the breath from him?
Her name turned up in Pansy's complaining letters: "I was hoping to get Skeeter to write some more pieces about that Mudblood Granger over the summer, but that woman refused! What's wrong with her?"
Skeeter would certainly refuse, Draco thought, his expression twitching. Granger must have found a way to make Skeeter's life very unpleasant indeed.
She had, of course, put a containment charm on a jar.
No — he couldn't think about that smug, self-righteous Granger!
Not long ago, she had looked down at him with contempt and called him "a petty person who sows discord," and said he made her feel "disgusted."
That ungrateful girl wasn't clever at all!
If she were truly clever, she'd know that certain things had nothing to do with him!
Draco was thoroughly fed up.
He spent three or four days throwing himself into Quidditch training until her words finally stopped echoing in his head.
However. Just when he thought he had finally recovered — just when "Granger" and everything associated with her had begun to lose its hold — that morning, as Draco trudged back to the Manor from his practice pitch, cutting through the flowerbeds, he heard several house-elves trimming the hedges suddenly exclaim: "...Hermione!"
What?
Draco's broomstick hit the ground.
It was as though someone had struck him with a Bludger right in the stomach.
"What are you talking about?" he demanded sharply.
The little elves huddled together in alarm, bowing and shrinking, too frightened to make a sound.
"Tell me!" His voice was fierce. "Who did you just say — Hermione?"
"It — it's the name of a rose variety, Young Master," one of the elves finally stammered, curtseying so deeply it nearly fell over. "Frost hybridised it from the garden roses. It's — it's this one."
It pointed a trembling finger toward a nearby pink rose on the wall.
Draco followed its direction.
A single pink rose, its petals glistening with dew.
It bloomed under the early morning sun — proud and graceful and beautiful, like something woven from gauze and pale light.
Something came over him. He couldn't have explained it if pressed.
He should have turned and walked away. He should have ignored this absurd flower in the Malfoy flowerbeds and given it no further thought.
He didn't.
He moved closer.
And he couldn't resist leaning in to smell it. It had a strange, unexpectedly pleasant fragrance.
Draco couldn't understand what had possessed him.
He reached out and plucked the flower. Then, with a trembling bow from the elf beside him, he tucked it into his pocket expressionlessly and walked away.
In what could only be described as a small act of defiance, the rose pricked his finger with its thorn.
He placed the seemingly gentle but secretly barbed rose in a small white jade vase with phoenix-head handles and taotie relief patterns, then stood glaring at it for rather a long time.
Why had he taken it?
Perhaps because it was an eyesore, standing there as though it had always belonged in Malfoy Manor.
It had no right to grow there so comfortably — adapting so naturally, blooming so unapologetically, as though the Manor had been waiting for it all along.
And besides — how dare they name such a beautiful, vibrant flower after her?
Granger's given name was Hermione.
He had never called her that. It was a strange name — he had never known another girl to have it. They weren't remotely close enough to use first names.
And yet — how was it that a flower with such a peculiar name had such an undeniably lovely face?
What did "Gentle Hermione" even mean?
She had absolutely nothing to do with "gentle." Draco felt a sudden, inexplicable toothache just thinking about it.
She had punched him. Squarely in the nose.
And in that carriage, not long ago, she had deliberately trodden on his foot. It had hurt considerably.
She should be called the Savage Hermione. That would be far more accurate.
"Savage Granger," he muttered at the flower, which stood there perfectly composed in its jade vase. "You're savage, aren't you? Savage enough to hit people, to grow wherever you please, to prick me without warning — as if nothing in the world could stop you."
The flower said nothing, standing proudly in its vase, appearing rather pleased with its accommodation.
The flower bloomed for a long time.
Even the day before term began, it was still going — stubbornly, wildly, fully in bloom.
He never threw it away.
Not for any ridiculous reason. Simply because he had found it useful as a target for his anger at Granger. Something to receive his curses when the mood struck.
Whenever he got stuck on his holiday assignments, he would scowl at the flower.
"I'll wager you couldn't do this either — even top students have their limits," he said grimly. "This concept is entirely beyond the Muggle-born grasp!"
The flower gazed at him serenely, giving nothing away.
Whenever the memory of what she had done to him surfaced, he would turn his glare on it.
"Look at you now — whose hands are you in?" He regarded it with dark satisfaction. "I could crush you whenever I like."
The flower looked back at him without a trace of fear, perfectly unmoved.
Very rarely — and at odd moments — he would simply stare at it, and his voice would shift into something quieter.
"Why do you smell like this?" he said, with a note of genuine bewilderment. "Is there something wrong with you? Why do you smell so good? Are you doing it on purpose?"
The flower offered no answer, only swayed very slightly, as though beckoning him.
He would lean in and breathe it in — and then, moments later, catch himself.
Then the panic would set in. Then the inexplicable fury. He would hurl something across the room and rage in a way that sent every house-elf in range sprinting for safety.
He could never bring himself to smash the vase. Nor the flower.
The only thing that allowed Draco to maintain any composure at all was the fact that this rose's scent was not quite the same as the scent he remembered from Granger's hair.
Therefore, everything he had done with that flower had absolutely nothing to do with Granger. He glared at it, thinking indignantly.
Just to confirm this, he even checked — on the first day of term, in the Prefects' compartment, when the girl came through the door hauling her luggage and that awful cat, he brushed past her with apparent casualness and discreetly inhaled.
Yes. Similar — pleasantly so — but not identical. Hers was more fruity than floral. Different, clearly.
He was about to investigate further when she spoke.
"Out of the way, Malfoy."
She gave him a savage elbow to the ribs and sent him stumbling sideways into a seat.
Weasley, standing behind her, burst out laughing.
"Granger—" Draco steadied himself against the seat and looked at her, deliberately not making any associations with flowers. "That assault earns Gryffindor five points off the board."
"She's a Prefect — you have no authority over her!" Weasley said furiously.
"Shall I dock them from you instead?"
"You can't dock them from me either — I'm a Prefect!" Weasley said.
"Do be quiet, Weasley," Pansy said, appearing from behind Draco with an air of scorn. "How on earth did you get a Prefect badge?"
Draco then noticed, for the first time, that it was not Potter who had come to the Prefects' compartment.
His attention shifted immediately. He had, briefly, forgotten entirely about Granger's distracting scent.
"Yes — Weasley, did you steal Potter's badge? Is he weeping in some compartment right now, feeling betrayed?" Draco said slowly.
Weasley's face went red.
"Ignore him," Granger said, giving Draco a look of complete disdain.
The look stung.
It was precisely the same look she had turned on him from that carriage seat two months ago — looking down at him — and in an instant, every emotion he had spent the entire summer carefully suppressing came flooding back.
He had to say something. Anything. To puncture their smugness.
"So that means I'll be keeping a very close eye on Potter," Draco said smoothly. "Any infractions, and I can assign him detention."
"That would be an abuse of your authority, Malfoy!" Granger snapped.
"You have no standing to interrupt here — Mudblood," Pansy said with a sneer. "Honestly, Dumbledore's gone soft. These days any sort of riff-raff can apparently earn a Prefect badge. Isn't that right, Draco?"
Draco said nothing. His expression remained cool and distant.
"That's still considerably more than you can say for yourself," Granger shot back at Pansy, without missing a beat. "Perhaps Dumbledore thought I was worth it — I'm at least marginally cleverer than a troll with a head injury."
Pansy stared at her, so furious she very nearly rose from the seat. Her mouth appeared to have temporarily locked itself shut, unable to produce a satisfying counter.
"Draco — aren't you going to say something?" Pansy demanded.
Draco kept his cool expression, studying Granger in silence.
Wild, she was. Like that flower — full of thorns she deployed without warning, never once coming off worse in an exchange.
The girl stared back at him without flinching — unlike the flower, which at least maintained a dignified silence — and began to openly threaten him: "Malfoy, if you use your Prefect authority to harass students, dock points arbitrarily, or hand out unwarranted detentions, I will report you to the Head Boy and Head Girl."
"Docking points and assigning detentions fall entirely within a Prefect's authority, Granger," he said at last, narrowing his eyes.
He held her gaze with his most arrogant expression and said, unhurried, "If I were you, I'd advise my friend to mind himself — rather than overreaching and trying to show off. Threatening other Prefects is an interesting choice."
"Ron — let's go find Harry." She looked at Draco with something that had moved beyond contempt into genuine, unimpressed disregard. "I won't waste my time on someone like him."
"Excuse us." She shouldered him aside from the middle of the aisle, took Weasley by the arm, and marched out of the compartment. The door slammed shut behind her with a definitive bang.
"That savage little—" his voice came out sharper than intended, wanting to land one final blow, but she had already gone.
"Savage Mudblood, isn't she?" Pansy said through gritted teeth, glaring at the closed door.
Draco gave a dismissive snort and said flatly, "Absolutely savage."
She had nothing whatsoever to do with that fragrant rose, and nothing at all to do with the "Gentle Hermione" variety.
Not even close.