AN: Thank you to everyone who reviewed, even those of you who didn't have good things to say. I really do appreciate constructive criticism, but one must consider this is my first endeavor at fanfiction. I apologize for its flaws, but I also expect some essence of politeness when someone points them out. I also want to say sorry for how long it takes for me to update. I have a stupidly busy life and writing's on the back burner. Thank you all! I hope you keep reading.
Chapter Three – Arithmancy
Hermione burst into the girl's dormitory and snatched her notes triumphantly off her bedside table. Only after cramming them into her bag did she pause to catch her long-forgotten breath. Then she made her way out of Gryffindor house. She was exceptionally relieved, and if she hurried, she could probably shove a few bites of whatever food was being served that day for lunch.
So Hermione walked briskly, determined not to run, toward the Great Hall. But as she passed the library, someone distracted her.
"Granger," said Blaise Zabini, striding out of the library. She stopped, surprised to see him.
"Zabini," she returned, nodding at him uncertainly.
"Where are you hurrying off to?" he asked casually. He leaned against the wall, polishing his fingernails on his robes.
She regarded him shrewdly and replied, "To lunch."
Zabini cocked an eyebrow. "Rather late, don't you think?"
"I forgot my notes," she sniffed, averting her gaze to the stone floor. He chuckled annoyingly, and she shot him her fiercest look.
"How coincidental," he said, grinning maliciously in response to her expression. All thoughts of his gratitude last night were erased from her brain. He was most definitely a Slytherin through and through, she concluded. "Say, were you able to retrieve them without a prefect - "
"How did you do on your test, Zabini?" she snapped suddenly.
Zabini frowned. He seemed angered by her question, but further amazed her by leaning forward until he was mere inches above her face. She could disturbingly feel the warmth of his breath on her skin. His eyes were a never ending deep blue, she noted inadvertently, like a mysterious sea she was propelled to delve into. Those eyes bore down into her own, for what seemed like a very long moment. Finally he replied quite smoothly, "1607.." He abruptly straightened and walked down the hall, smirking at her over his shoulder.
Hermione shuddered. In her mind, Zabini had switched from a regular Slytherin full of ill-will, to a not-so-bad, grateful Slytherin who wanted good grades (which, she had to admit, was something she still very much approved of and had lessened her unease towards him). Now he had changed back again – only worse.
Remembering where she had been headed, she frantically checked her watch. Lunch was an option no longer; she had about fifteen minutes to climb a few floors to Arithmancy. Grimacing, she remembered Zabini was in fact in the same class. Hermione heaved a sigh and set off in the direction he had left in a moment before, walking rather slowly so as not to encounter him again.
She had never been late for Arithmancy. Not once. With the exception of the few occasions she had been a patient in the Hospital Wing and absent, no matter what had been happening with Harry, You-Know-Who, or anything else in her life, Hermione was always on time. Today, some unseen force seemed to be battling against her in order to break that perfect timing.
First, she had tripped: tripped on a moving staircase that had sent her books, quills, and notes flying all the way down the many steps. Hermione had scrambled up to gather them. She was particularly glad at this moment that she had thought to perform an Unbreakable charm on her ink bottle when Peeves had taken the fancy of dropping them on unsuspecting students. After gathering all of her belongings, the staircase moved away from the hall leading to Arithmancy. Despite her coaxing, it would not relocate. She had to then take a longer route (which she ran all the way through) to the classroom.
"So much for seizing the moment," she reflected bitterly on George's words as she raced down the corridor.
Then, hair bushier than ever, robes hanging haphazard on her shoulders, stockings spotted with dirt from falling and perhaps even sporting a few small holes, and not to mention the wild look she must've had on her face, Hermione burst into the Arithmancy classroom. She was approximately thirty seconds late, Professor Vector only just beginning her lecture. She had been startled by Hermione's entrance, her thin eyebrows shooting up high across her brow.
"Miss Granger," Professor Vector said, fumbling nervously with her glasses. "I wasn't expecting - "
"Oh, professor, I'm so sorry I'm late!" Hermione exclaimed crazily. "I never meant to – I was – the staircase - oh and…" She gave up trying to explain and concentrated solely on not collapsing into tears.
"Now, now," the professor said awkwardly, a little taken aback by the girl's ardent apology. "I know you're not one to be tardy. Let's see," she turned from her student to quickly glance across the room. "Why don't you take a seat over there by Mr. Zabini?"
Hermione looked around at her classmates in horror. Every single Arithmancy student was there – even the Hufflepuff who was always five minutes late, and the two boys who were continuously in the Hospital Wing after accidents in Herbology. All of the seats were full. Except one.
Any other day she would not have given a care who she sat by; she was there for the class and the class alone. She struggled to remind herself of that as she reluctantly walked to the seat next to a very smug-looking Zabini, and sat rigidly down.
"Distracted?"
She glared at him mightily. Apparently he took this as an invitation.
"Forget more notes?"
Ignoring the Slytherin, she pulled out her quill, ink, and finally the infamous notes. She was about to wave them in his face when she realized that they were not her Arithmancy ones, but Ancient Runes. Hermione kept neat, very precise notes for every class, whether needed or no. It seemed that until now she had never confused them. If she didn't have them, while she would've been fine, it was something she liked to have as a foundation for her study time. She nearly shrieked, and would have if Professor Vector had not continued her lesson at that precise moment.
"So, basically, given its placement, six is the balance number in this luck charm, therefore having a healthy - " the professor was saying.
"Ancient Runes?" Blaise Zabini said incredulously. "Granger, your brain must be finally splitting at the seams…"
" – and after its stability comes the resourceful number - "
"I do suppose they could look alike though," he mused, "Runes do sometimes resemble numbers. From afar," he added, leering.
"Be quiet," she whispered shrilly, attempting to make new notes on the backside of the others. Her empty stomach made this torment no better; her nerves were raw and she was inches away from hexing him to some place particularly nasty.
"Tut, tut. That will only confuse you further."
"Underneath those two comes the passion number - "
"I am not confused," she insisted to him, scribbling madly.
"Nine is the most purposeful and important number in the entire charm. It is located in the center beneath stability and resource," Professor Vector was pointing to her written example on the chalk board. "Without it, the answer would be lifeless – no desire, will, or meaning. Even if the latter is diminutive in the written equation, its power is still relevant. Look at the structure of - "
"I believe you are muddled," Zabini drawled on, fiddling with his quill. "You seriously lack a passion number." He grinned at her wickedly.
Hermione shook with indignation, but said nothing. She concentrated on her notes.
"Or maybe it's a stability number, due to the state of your - " he was continuing.
"Please shut up," she said politely, dangerously. Her eyes flashed with an arrant ferocity as she gazed into his swarthy face.
He observed her in a perplexed sort of way, but was silent throughout the rest of the lesson.