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The Werewolf	By : chedevy Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 9799 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 4
- 5
- 6
Tuesday; 1 September 1998, 11:00 a.m.
As the telltale shrill whistle resounded throughout Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, the Hogwarts Express departed from the station with lurching motions. Surprisingly, the train was buzzing with excited chatters and loud greetings. It was as though the war had never happened, Hermione mused somewhat pensively, watching the enthusiastic students milling about her, finding their friends and talking loudly about the summer holidays.
“They’re all a bloody noisy lot, aren’t they?” Ron remarked next to her. They both had to step aside so as to let a group of laughing Hufflepuff boys pass in the narrow corridor.
“There’s no need to swear, Ron,” Hermione scolded half-heartedly.
Ron’s eyes were still on the retreating, boisterous boys. “Well, they are. It’s weird. It’s kind of as if nothing changed – just another year of school. ”
“They’re just happy to see their friends,” said Hermione, even as her thoughts fully mirrored Ron’s. It wasn’t that she begrudged her schoolmates their joy of living in a secure setting$ again. In fact, she wasn’t even sure why the giddy atmosphere of the train rankled her at all. Perhaps she simply wasn’t prepared for it, having expected everyone to be relieved, though more serious and morose, with the war still fresh in the memory of British wizards and witches. She’d expected quiet. Hermione’s own mood was that of melancholy.
There was nothing for it, though; Hermione shrugged, and giving Ron a small smile, grabbed his hand. “Come on – the other prefects are probably waiting for us.”
It was a great improvement, in her opinion, that neither of them was stammering wildly as they resumed their pace holding hands, though they were both blushing. While they had certainly had many occasions during the summer to become closer, they’d only just started being comfortable enough to touch each other freely between July and August. Hermione found out first-hand that stepping up from being friends to being something more wasn’t that easy a process. It required steely patience and inordinate heaps of courage – and even though both Ron and Hermione were virtually the very images of Gryffindor bravery, in their relationship they were nervous. They needed time to adjust. Hermione had been shy and unsure of how to interact with Ron after their first kiss during the Final Battle, and she could tell that he had been equally uncertain.
As they weaved their way through students clustered in the corridors of the train, hands still linked, Hermione was amazed (and mortified) at how popular she and Ron seemed to suddenly become. Before the war, besides the fact that they’d been perceived as Harry Potter’s best friends, they were just two ordinary students. Now, it appeared that they became some sort of heroes to the rest of the school – every step of their way to the prefect carriage, there was not a moment’s silence, and whenever they were spotted, the noise increased. Everybody wanted to touch them and to speak to them. Upon noticing their linked hands, Hermione kept receiving excited squeals from the girls, and Ron was given thumbs-ups and pats on the back from the boys.
“Excuse – Excuse-me, can you let us through? We’re in a hurry,” Hermione tried to speak over the commotion when Ron just accepted the congratulations and praise like it was his due.
“C’mon, make room for them, idiots!” somebody laughed good-naturedly. “Let them have their alone-time!”
The crowd crowed; hardly anyone moved. Students were actually coming out of their compartments to join their excited peers.
“Is it true you two are engaged now?” some girl squealed.
“Moron!” someone else shouted. “Ron didn’t even start courting her yet, have you, Ron?”
Ron, his face the colour of his hair, ducked his head with a grin. Another round of cheering and cooing ensued after that, and Hermione’s mortification was gradually turning into impatience. They didn’t have time for all this – the prefect meeting was due to begin any second now, and she didn’t want to be late.
“Ron, let’s go,” she urged, squeezing his hand that was now sweating. It seemed that Ron finally realised Hermione wasn’t enjoying herself as much as he was, as he shouted to the crowd, “Okay, okay, that’s enough, people!” He was still grinning. “Let us through, would you? Prefect duties call – or something like that...”
Realising that the two focal points of the commotion wouldn’t stick around for long, the throng of mirthful students slowly began thinning. Hermione and Ron, still getting an occasional pat on the back, somehow managed to reach the prefects’ carriage without more difficulties, and only then did they let go of each other’s hand.
Ron made a grand gesture as he slid the door open for her. “Ladies first.”
Hermione couldn’t hold back the giggle that escaped her. She curtsied demurely to Ron and then entered the compartment.
“And here come the heroes!” a dramatic shout greeted them at once, and instantly applause coupled with joyful cheering ensued from the students inside the carriage. Hermione balked. Red-cheeked with renewed embarrassment, she grabbed Ron (who had evidently been intent on basking in the attention again) by the arm, and quickly dragged him to the nearest seats.
“Oh come on, Hermione, live a little.” Ron said happily once they were sitting. “You heard them – we’re heroes now! What’s the harm in enjoying it?”
Hermione moaned inwardly. “Ron, this is embarrassing – and you’re just egging them on!”
Ron shrugged sheepishly, but he didn’t seem too repentant.
At last, when the last bouts of clapping died down, ending Hermione’s discomfiture, Ernie Macmillan stood up, looking every bit his pompous self. “Alright, alright. Welcome back, Ron, Hermione, it’s good to see you two again.” He bowed graciously in their direction. Ron puffed up his chest in response while Hermione smiled rather awkwardly. “It is very good, indeed. Such a shame our friend Harry can’t be here with us at the moment, but I suppose one sometimes needs a break from being a hero.” He paused to nod in Hermione and Ron’s general direction. “Now, it’s time us prefects stepped in and took some responsibility on our shoulders. But I suggest we start small. It seems that everyone is present now, so why don’t we move on and begin our meeting?”
A few people nodded readily. However, when Ernie opened his mouth again, a snide, feminine voice called from the corner of the compartment, “Oh give it up, Macmillan. You’re not even Head Boy, are you?”
Hermione looked at the girl who had said this. It was, according to the badge on her robes, a sixth year Slytherin, but Hermione didn’t recognise her. She was of small built, with a diamond shaped face and brown hair that fell over her shoulders. Upon closer inspection, though, Hermione could see a distinct resemblance between the girl and Daphne Greengrass, her classmate. While Hermione held no love for Daphne, she was aware the snobbish, frivolous girl in her year had a younger sister named Astoria – and judging from the attitude and the similarity in appearance, it could only mean this was her.
“Well – I, er – no, I’m not Head Boy, actually,” Ernie spluttered, flushing. “But I was just saying – we need to begin somewhere, right?”
“Whatever,” Blaise Zabini, another Slytherin, drawled dismissively. “So who here is Head Boy if it’s not Macmillan?”
A straw-haired boy who sat next to Ernie, squirming in his seat all the while, raised his hand. “I am. My name’s Timothy Clearwater. Er, nice to meet you.” He did a small wave, and indeed, a golden Head Boy badge flashed up from his robes.
“Oh, of course – a Hufflepuff,” Zabini said with distaste as he eyed Timothy’s embroidered black and yellow Hogwarts emblem.
For a second, there was a charged silence. Although altercations between Slytherin and the other houses were certainly not a rare occurrence, after the war, one would think the antagonism would abate. And perhaps in some cases it did – but evidently not every Slytherin was ready to end the hostility (just as not every Gryffindor was willing to let them.)
When it became clear Timothy wasn’t going to say anything in his defence, Hermione was about to intervene – however, somebody else beat her to it. “There’s nothing wrong with a Hufflepuff being Head Boy.” The voice belonged to a lanky, severe-looking girl sitting beside Padma Patil. “You don’t have to scoff at others just because you’re jealous, Zabini.”
Zabini wrinkled his nose as though something foul had just appeared in front of him.
“And who are you?” yet another Slytherin, a fifth year boy this time, asked before Zabini could make a retort.
“I’m Nanette Desford,” the girl said, tossing back strings of dark hair. “And I’m Head Girl. So you’d better learn to show some respect to Timothy and me, or I’ll deduct points. There’ll be no hogwash from you Slytherins this year if I have anything to say about it.”
Hermione was somewhat impressed. The girl, a Ravenclaw as her emblem suggested, not only came across as diligent, down to earth, and definitely capable of holding her own, but also protective of those being picked on. She could see clearly Professor McGonagall’s reasons behind her choice of a Head Girl.
“How charming,” Astoria Greengrass said, a sneer twisting her pretty face. “Already prejudiced against us Slytherins, are you?”
“I’m not prejudiced,” said Nanette. “I’m just acting on mere observation. Based on what I’ve seen from your House today on the train, you needed the warning. Here you are all Prefects! And still, you display this completely unfounded superior attitude. Hufflepuff is as good a House as any other; if anything, it is you, the Slytherins, who need to let go of the prejudice.”
At least three Slytherins were visibly ready to argue the point, but this time Timothy Clearwater hastily cut in.“Right, er,” he said. “Can we get back to the matter at hand, though, please? We’ve got to get this meeting, uh, over with before we reach Hogwarts, so...”
“Yes, let’s,” Zabini said, already looking bored. “I think it’s agreed that we’ve all got things we’d rather be doing right now.”
Hermione disagreed with him – she took her prefect duties quite seriously, thank you very much. Granted, she would have much preferred it if it was her who was made Head Girl, but she’d (grudgingly) come to accept Professor McGonagall’s decision that students coming back to repeat their seventh year couldn’t be granted the honour. She understood how it would be unfair towards the current seventh years, though the bitterness remained. In a way, Hermione reasoned, she’d already missed her chance at acquiring the badge – after all, her last year had been spent entirely on hunting Voldemort’s Horcruxes.
“Of course, Timothy,” Nanette said, sparing Zabini a disapproving glance. “We’ll start with telling those of you who are new of the prefect duties and privileges. What do you say, Timothy? The old prefects can treat it as a reminder from the previous years.”
Timothy nodded eagerly, evidently pleased at having some input. “Sounds fair to me. Why don’t you begin?”
And so the first meeting began.

Several compartments down the train, slumped in his seat, Draco was brooding. It was a large misunderstanding, in his opinion, that he was forced to be sitting here right now. After all, hadn’t he suffered enough already? If Shacklebolt, the bothersome dick of a new Minister, knew Draco’s overall punishment was hardly limited to what the Wizengamot had ordered, Draco bet he wouldn’t be sent back to Hogwarts. No matter the more naive fools’ preaching, nobody really wanted a werewolf in the vicinity of children. He would be viewed as dangerous to society. Already, at least half the Wizengamot members considered Draco to be a bad influence on the other students, and nearly one-third were averse to having him return to Hogwarts at all. He was universally despised as it was. If only they knew...
The last thing Draco wanted, though, was for people to find out what he was. Hiding a dark secret from the whole school was going to be difficult, but Draco could deal with it – he was never a sincere person to begin with. But he couldn’t allow his condition to be given away. With all this in mind (as well as with the reminder that failing to meet any of the stipulations set by the Ministry would get him shipped off to Azkaban) Draco had boarded the Hogwarts Express today.
Already, he was feeling the repercussions of this action.
Everything around him was just too much – too loud, too harsh, and too intense. His senses were overloaded. This was also causing him a crushing headache, which wasn’t even so unusual anymore, but it did serve to make his aggravation with the world surge. Silently, Draco vowed to himself that if another hysterical first year yelled something across the corridor, he would get out there and bash their skull in, his three-year-long probation be damned.
Just then, without warning, the train made a particularly hard lurch; Draco gritted his teeth. On top of everything, he was feeling queasy, which was new. He felt like a caged dog with a bad case of motion sickness. He could only pray he could stave off his nausea long enough for the train to reach its destination.
The ceaseless chatter of his classmates was currently leading him to wonder if somewhere on the train an empty compartment would be available. Maybe if he chased away its occupants...
“What do you think, Draco?” Pansy Parkinson asked out of the blue as she latched at his arm. Suddenly confronted with a great whiff of her overwhelming perfume, Draco almost gagged. It took a lot of his self-control to not recoil, though he did face the other way.
“No idea, Pansy. Don’t bother me.”
Pansy’s lips thinned, her gaze drilling holes in his profile. “You don’t even know what I’ve just asked, do you? No, of course you don’t,” she answered herself when it became obvious he wouldn’t, too absorbed in staring at the window glass. “For your information,” she said, now glaring, “Theo and I were talking about your miserable state. You’ve been in a mood since we boarded this ruddy train –“
“I’m not in any mood –”
“So I was wondering if we could go do something fun after the feast today!” she hissed. “Spend some time together! Because I’ve missed you!” Pansy was near crying now, and heads were turning in their direction. This was nothing new in the Slytherin territory, however, as they were all used to Pansy’s dramatic outbursts. Draco closed his eyes in frustration, silently willing the silly bint to stop her grouching. “The teachers and prefects will be tired after we arrive, so we wouldn’t be bothered. I wanted to tell you about my summer, in detail! But you don’t care. You never care!”
At this point, Draco tried to get some word in, if only to ease his headache; her shrill voice was making it worse. “Pansy, will you shut up for –”
“No, I will not! You don’t even want to hear me out – I don’t know why I even bother! You’re only ever interested in one thing!”
“I don’t remember you complai –”
“See?” her timbre was almost impossibly high. Draco covered his ear, cringing. “You’re such a bloody prick sometimes! You don’t care about me at all!” She gasped suddenly, as if coming to a startling realisation. “Or is there someone else? Have you met some dirty tart during the summer, is that it?”
Draco would have laughed if he wasn’t so exasperated. “Are you mad? I was a Death Eater – people go out of their fucking way to avoid me! Who would I have met, a fucking Muggle?”
“How should I know? I don’t know what’s going through your head anymore!”
“Good Lord, tone it down, Parkinson!” Theodore Nott, a stringy-looking boy in their year, said irritably. “Better yet, why don’t you two take it somewhere else? Nobody wants to listen to your –”
“You stay out of it, Nott,” Pansy snapped at him before promptly turning back to Draco. “And you’re not denying that you’d like to meet someone. Why don’t you just say it outright –”
Dragging both hands through his hair, Draco exhaled loudly. “For God’s sake, just shut up, you stupid cow.”
This was apparently too much for Pansy. Outraged, she made a move as if to slap him, but Draco grabbed her wrist. “Let me go – Don’t you call me a –”
But he caught a hold of her jaw and kissed her before she could finish her sentence. Pansy accepted the kiss as though the argument had never taken place. She hummed into his mouth and eagerly wound her free arm around his neck, nearly crawling onto his lap as he moved his hand from her jaw to grasp the hair at the back of her head. Although they were still being stared at, Draco managed to shove that notion aside. In truth, except the times when he was younger and wanted to show off, he rarely snogged Pansy in front of other people. Why would he? Pansy was a rather passionate girl when it came to these things, and Draco didn’t much fancy finding himself in a... predicament in his classmates’ presence.
When they did snog in public, though, Pansy was often disposed to forget everything else, even if they had been fighting moments before. Unlike him, she loved public displays of affection. In fact, Draco was almost convinced that, contrary to the prudery her pure-blood lineage suggested, Pansy was a closet exhibitionist.
Someone in the compartment catcalled, and Pansy keened into the kiss.
Then, the strangest thing happened: Pansy’s tongue that was in his mouth caught on his canine. She let out a muffled squeak as she jerked her head away, holding a hand to her lips, but Draco barely noticed. Tasting the blood in his mouth, he tightened his hold on her and stared.
Pansy giggled. “You look like you want to eat me.”
And the terrifying thing was that she was right.
They were both breathing heavily, but Draco suddenly found his pulse quickening for entirely different reasons. The next full moon was only a week away, and with its approach, Draco’s senses and urges were more and more resembling those of a wolf. As it was, right now, the remnants of Pansy’s blood in his mouth were causing his craving for more to stir.
This was mad, he knew – Pansy was a human being, and what was more, she was his friend. He knew he shouldn’t be feeling what the animalistic half of his brain implied. Even so, now that he got a taste of her sweet tongue, until after the full moon, Draco wouldn’t trust himself not to bite it off the next time he had it in his mouth.
“Oh hurray, you’re done, thank Salazar,” somebody said from the side, making them both jump. It was Theodore Nott. While the moment Nott had left the compartment went unobserved by Draco, the fact that he was wearing an overly relieved expression as he plopped back down on the opposite seat, didn’t.
Draco flipped him off as he pushed Pansy off his lap. Then, he set about managing the excess of saliva in his mouth.
“Yeah, Nott, we are now, thanks to you,” Pansy snapped. “God bless your great timing, really.”
Unconcerned, Nott grabbed a book lying beside him and browsed through it. “Well, what can I say to that? You’ve got to admit I’m overall quite brilliant.”
Pansy sneered. “I think you meant ‘bitter’ – because you’re not getting any.” She pretended to consider this. “Who knows, maybe if you actually put away those stupid books of yours, you might finally get laid.”
To Draco’s surprise, Nott’s face reddened; it was a fairly odd look on any Slytherin. “I’ve just got more important things on my mind than girls,” he replied tersely.
Draco found it in himself to smirk. “Sure,” he said. “Whatever helps you sleep at night. And what lonely nights they must be.”
“What are you saying, Draco?” Pansy gasped with feigned astonishment. “I’m sure Theo’s getting plenty of comfort from Miranda Goshawk... and her Standard Book of Spells. I mean, it’s just full of charms!” she giggled uncontrollably, failing to notice Nott’s deepening glower. Draco, however, didn’t. And he relished in it. Finally, he felt completely in his element – humiliating others had always been one of his favourite pastimes, and it didn’t matter if the victim was his friend or not.
“Don’t laugh, Pansy,” he drawled, smirking still. “We all know that’s the most action Nott’s really going to get with a witch.”
They were both enjoying the other boy’s irked expression immensely. But Nott was a Slytherin as well, and he had his pride, too; he wasn’t going to just take the ridicule lying down. “Really, Malfoy,” he said over Pansy’s giggles, eyes narrowed with vengefulness. “I actually think I sleep much better than you do – well, at least once every month, if you understand me.”
All semblance of Draco’s bettered mood evaporated in an eye’s blink. Feeling as though the time had stopped, he fixed Nott with a frozen stare. Did he understand it right? His heart was beating a quick tattoo in his chest, as he tried to calm down and think it over. Was it possible that Nott knew about his condition? Draco was almost certain the answer was no – after all, there was nothing that could give him away. He hadn’t been acting odd or suspicious, or at least he didn’t think he had. Nott couldn’t have figured it out. And even if he somehow had, there was no way he would be peacefully sharing a compartment with Draco instead of broadcasting the news to the entire train. After all, nobody wanted to socialise with a werewolf.
But when Nott refused to meet his eyes after that unsettling admission, Draco began to have doubts. Regardless of what his senses told him, his instincts disagreed. For one, there was the fact that Nott not only appeared like he knew exactly what he’d just said, but also as though he hadn’t intended to say it at all. It was a guilty look, Draco realised with a sinking heart. Nott knew. There really weren’t many ways in which his meaning could be interpreted if one had an idea what to look for. The small bout of nausea Draco felt this time had nothing to do with motion sickness.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Pansy was obviously confused. “Draco? Draco. Hey!” she prodded his arm with her finger, and finally he jerked his gaze away.
“Who knows?” he drawled, feigning nonchalance. Then, with one last glance at Nott, he stood up. “I’m going to take a walk. Don’t follow me,” he added when Pansy started to get up, as well.
“But –”
Draco was out of the compartment before she could finish her thought. He needed to get away. If Nott really was aware of his condition, there had to be a reason he hadn’t exposed it to the public yet; Draco intended to discover that reason. Needless to say, though, he resolved that he wouldn’t provoke Theodore Nott again any time soon.

“How was the prefects’ meeting?” Ginny wanted to know as soon as Hermione and Ron entered the compartment.
Ron groaned as if pained. “Bloody terrible,” he said, flopping down next to Harry. Hermione sat across from him, beside Neville. “I hate the Slytherins. Slimy gits, all of them.”
“It was certainly... interesting,” Hermione offered, looking weary. “Lots of disagreements and spats over nothing. You can probably tell, though – the meeting didn’t last this long without a reason.”
“What about the Slytherins?” Harry asked.
Ron simply groaned again, so Hermione took it upon herself to answer. “Oh, you know – they were... well, they were being Slytherins, honestly.” She sighed. “Mostly they just kept questioning the Heads and making rude remarks – Timothy, the Head Boy, is a Hufflepuff, so you can imagine they felt all superior. Oh, but at least nobody insulted anyone because of their blood, so I don’t think it went truly bad, all things considered.”
“I should ruddy well think they didn’t,” Ginny growled, snuggling closer to Harry and putting his arm around herself. “After all that’s happened, the only thing we need is Slytherins’ endless drivel.”
Harry’s hand was playing with a strand of Ginny’s red hair as he said, “Nah, I don’t think they’re going to keep it up this year.” He shrugged. “Self-preservation and all that, remember? It wouldn’t be very, er, prudent to still spout prejudice in their situation.”
Neville was nodding. “Right.” His mouth twisted into a grimace. “They have to appear properly apologetic, don’t they? Not doing a very good job of it anyway, if you ask me...”
This, coming from the previously very shy, withdrawn boy, caused Hermione to frown. It was clear Neville gained more confidence after assuming the role of a Dumbledore’s Army’s leader during the war, but he seemed to be rather bitter now, as well. “When have you become so sceptical, Neville?” she asked in a tone that was noticeably disapproving. “You shouldn’t judge people by their House – yes, I know it’s exactly what the Slytherins are doing, but why would you want to lower yourself to their level that way? Some of them could be genuinely contrite. I think they at least deserve another chance.”
“I knew you’d say something like that, Hermione,” Neville replied. His expression showed a mixture of sheepishness and vague condescension, which sparked a feeling of indignation in Hermione, until he elaborated. “But you weren’t here, at Hogwarts, when the Death Eaters ruled the school. Don’t get me wrong,” he corrected hastily, “I know you three were on a mission elsewhere, and that it definitely wasn’t easy on you. But... some things the Slytherins did last year just to get in the Carrows’ good books were horrible. It’s just a bit hard to forget it happened, even if I know not all the Slytherins were the same.”
“Oh,” Hermione uttered after a pause. She wished she could just eat her own words; of course Neville had more reasons than her to blame the Slytherins. She’d spoken without thinking, which was a rare occurrence, indeed. Now she felt foolish.
There was a small movement in the corner of the compartment. “Ginny said only a few Slytherins were actually cruel,” a serene voice said. It was Luna’s; for a moment, Hermione had forgotten the quirky blonde girl was there.
Ginny sagged slightly against Harry, pouting a little. “Okay, yes, that’s true,” she admitted with some reluctance, as heads swerved in her direction. “Oh, some of them were really bad, like Crabbe and Goyle – they were right at the top of the list. But it was obvious that mostly the Slytherins just did what they were told to do. To tell you the truth, many were actually neutral and stayed away from the Carrows completely.”
“Well, with Crabbe and Goyle constantly out for blood, you can imagine not many others were needed,” Neville put in. At the Trio’s inquisitive looks, he added, “to oversee the students in detentions.”
“It’s called torture, Neville,” Ginny said quietly. “You’ve got no reason to sugarcoat it.”
“Right,” Neville replied, and they all fell silent after that. Hermione felt somewhat ashamed of herself; she really had no idea what it was like at Hogwarts the previous year. She’d been curious, of course, but she never asked. Ginny had surely already told Harry about that period, and probably the Weasley family, too, so she probably saw no need to share her grievances with Hermione as well. Hermione now felt a bit left out because of that, which, she knew, was just silly.
Suddenly, Luna jumped up a little and said, “Oh, I’ve got some pastries with Gulping Plimpy filling.” She started digging in her peculiar-looking, deep-blue, furry bag. “Daddy said they’re wonderful for serious and quiet moments just like this.”
As they all awkwardly nibbled on the bittersweet pastries, trying in unison not to cringe, Hermione thought that, for once, Xenophilius Lovegood had a point.

It was already nightfall when the train started to slow down. Far in the distance, the outline of the Hogwarts castle could be seen towering over the Black Lake. The Hogwarts Express made a final lurch before it stopped completely, and the doors opened before the awaiting students. This was when Draco scented it – the delicate fragrance he’d only inhaled once before, but puzzled over for days. Even in the crowd of hundreds exhausted teenagers, the smell was quite distinct, which could only mean one thing – the source of it was close by. Try as might, Draco was unable to keep himself from turning his head in its direction.
Sure enough, Granger stood there, just as he knew she would, along with Potter, Weasley, and Weasley’s sister. Even though Draco knew he would see her there, it still somehow came as an unwelcome surprise. What was it about her scent that bothered him so much? He couldn’t comprehend it. She wasn’t wearing any kind of perfume, he was certain of it, and still he couldn’t help but feel grudgingly drawn in – she had a smell that he couldn’t seem to ignore.
Although there were two or three students separating them, the train was rather cramped. As a result, there was only about two metres distance between them in total, and now that he was facing Granger, the scent was more perceptible. Without consulting his brain about it, Draco inhaled deeply. It was a fragrance that was hard to describe – delicate but catchy, fresh and feminine. It seemed to be somehow camouflaged underneath the tang of her soap and shampoo, indicating that it was her own natural musk, which made him feel all the more disturbed.
Over the months, Draco managed to get used to his enhanced senses. His body and mind adapted to them with time, so for the most part the sensitiveness didn’t trouble him anymore. However, while he was aware every person had their own unique scent, he hadn’t been bothered by anyone else’s as much as he was by Granger’s. Much as he’d tried to chalk it up to a onetime occurrence, the fact that the situation repeated itself told a different story. There was just no getting around it – he was, in some unfathomable, primal way, intrigued by Granger.
The thought both perturbed and disgusted him at once. Her blood was dirty, for Salazar’s sake. The war may have been over, but that didn’t compel Draco to develop a sudden love for Mudbloods and blood-traitors. He still held them in contempt, just as his parents had taught him to, and he had no intention of making nice with them. Admittedly, his hatred didn’t run nearly as deep as it used to prior to the war, for he no longer believed Muggle-borns deserved to be killed or tortured for their inferior blood status, but the truth remained that he scorned them, even as he wasn’t a pure-blood wizard himself, anymore.
Granger was, to him, the very representative of all the Mudbloods in the entire Hogwarts. She was the prime example of Muggle-borns’ persistence to defiantly remain in the wizards and witches’ community. Draco despised her, or at least he had until he found out she’d testified on his trial, along with Potter. To this day, he had no idea what had inspired them to do that for him. However, while the sense of grudging gratitude he felt somewhat diminished Granger’s inferiority in his eyes, nothing could obscure the fact that she was a Mudblood.
Granger giggled at something or other Weasley had said, and Draco watched her blatantly, not even trying to pretend otherwise. Seriously, it was the first time he’d seen the bint giggle – usually, she had her nose stuck in a book, looking for all the world as if she didn’t have a life outside of it.
Then the hair on the back of his neck stood up on ends – Draco knew, at once, that Granger wasn’t the only one under scrutiny, anymore. He felt like he was being observed, as well. He jerked his gaze away, scowling, and his displeasure only increased as he found the Weasel staring at him. Draco didn’t hold back the urge to sneer – after all, he didn’t owe anything to the beggared blood-traitor. Weasley predictably sneered back, and then put his arm around Granger’s shoulder; Draco didn’t even want to think of reasons for which Weasley felt it necessary to do that while holding eye-contact with him.
The crowd of students was slowly thinning. Soon, the Trio along with the She-Weasel also walked away, exiting the Hogwarts Express.
“Looked awfully smug, didn’t they,” Pansy grumbled at his side, gazing after the war heroes. Although Draco said nothing as he, too, got off the train, he agreed with the statement wholeheartedly.

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Sorry for the late update! Although I've had this chapter finished for some time now, there were a lot of edits that had to be done and I've been a bit busy with school. But now that it's here... I hope you liked!
I'd love some reviews! :)
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The Werewolf