A/N: Story is canon up to seventh year. Hermione did not see Sirius die. She was unconscious at the time.

This story is the re-write of the one I wrote waaaay back when. Rated T for mild language, I suppose, in later chapters? I broke it into three chapters this time because the whole story took up 27 pages on Word.

Disclaimer: Only the plot is mine, characters belong to J.K. Rowling

Essays

Essays. I absolutely loved them. I always got an 'Outstanding' on them, and (with the exception of Professor Snape, who hated me almost as much as Crookshanks hates Ron) my teachers were always proud of my excellent research and extreme dedication. But as the years went on, I began to view them with a distinct distaste. Why? One particular haughty, self-absorbed, ferrety prat who donned a certain sneer that seemed firmly imprinted upon his face. It started, in fact, in my first year…

xXx

He strutted around as if a large stick had been stuffed up his arse; his facial expressions relayed the same story. Glaring at passers-by who he deemed unworthy to set foot within a three-foot radius of his person, he had an air of arrogance that I thought was too presumptuous. Naturally, I held a slight aversion to him.

A few days into the school year, I was in the library, seated in a desolate corner and working on an essay titled "Wizards, Witches, and Muggles." I heard someone sit down next to me, but I didn't bother to look up. After all, the most amazing anti-thesis had come to mind, and I—

"Hello."

—had just lost it.

Irritably, I glanced over, quill poised over my parchment in case the idea decided to happen back into my head. "May I help you?"

"Hermione, isn't it?"

I returned flatly, "Impressive. You know my name. Planning to tell me the colour of my eyes next?"

Ignoring my cross use of sarcasm, he glanced over at my paper. "What are you working on?"

"None of your business." Ah, wait! It was coming back. I began scribbling words down before they decided to flee my mind once more.

Thaddeus Thurkell was famous for producing seven Squib sons and turning them all into—

Suddenly, I frowned and paused, putting down my quill and rummaging through my bag until I found my bright blue eraser. I then proceeded to remove a good portion of my sentence, after which, I picked up the parchment and blew away the wisps of remaining eraser shavings.

"Homework? Hermione, that paper isn't due for another two weeks! We were just assigned it yesterday."

Picking up the blue eraser I had put down, I began to scrub at my parchment with a renewed vigor. "I hardly believe in procrastination. Panic attacks the night before do not turn out quality essays."

"Come on." I nearly jumped. Perhaps I had given so much attention to my erasing that I hadn't seen him move, but now, he was right by my ear, his hands resting on my shoulders. Now that was a big no-no. "Live a little. Be a little dangerous and put it off until tomorrow." I heard the subtle mocking underneath, and it only served to increase my desire to kick him where he deserved it.

So I did. Or at least, I tried to, but when I stood up, my head came into straight contact with his nose. He let out a brilliant squeal, rivaling Lavender Brown's shrill giggles. "Sod off and find another brainless bimbo who might actually fall for your obnoxious attempts of cajolery."

He frowned at me while holding his nose. "Fine. I'll fid dum oder cudie to go ow wid." Giving a dramatic huff, he spun on his heel (didn't stop in time and so had to catch himself before he went toppling to the ground) and marched out of the library. This ruckus instigated a lecture about respect in the library from Madam Pince.

I smiled. I was already taking a liking towards that batty, old librarian.

Sitting back down, I took one look at my parchment and resisted the urge to rip it into shreds. There, despite my efforts to erase it for the past few minutes or so, sat the words in my own handwriting:

Thaddeus Thurkell was famous for producing seven Squib sons and turning them all into that blond hottie sitting next to me.

I glared at the paper, willing for the words to disappear. They didn't. Groaning, I took out another piece of parchment and began re-writing my essay.

Outside the library, the blond boy twirled his wand between the fingers of his free hand and gave a self-satisfied smirk. It was a good thing he had learned that spell.

xXx

The next year, there were no more flirtatious advances from him. There shouldn't have been, seeing as I was best friends with the two people he hated most in school. It also didn't help that I was a Mudblood. I would've wrung his neck for all those incidents he used that vile word, but it seemed that I had no time set aside for it. The Chamber of Secrets was priority for everyone that year.

However, there was one time where we crossed paths in the library again.

I was back in my usual corner, this time detailing the utilization and effects of dragon's blood, aptly naming the essay, "The Twelve Uses of Dragon's Blood." I was never one for creative titles, as long as the job was done.

Dragon's blood has many essential uses that can more than likely be credited to its purity, which—

"Hello, Mudblood."

Again, with the timing. If I hadn't so busy jotting down notes about its properties, I would have stood up and slapped him silly, or something to that extent.

"You do realize it's only polite to respond when addressed, don't you? Oh wait, I forgot! Mudbloods have no sense of propriety or decency, else they walk around apologizing to everyone else for their existence."

I clenched my teeth and told myself not to give in to my bubbling anger, which was currently urging me to knee him so violently that he would never be able to have children. Instead, I opted for reaching into my bag and getting out my bright blue eraser after which I then rubbed viciously at my parchment.

"Come now, don't leave your frustrations bottled up. It's unhealthy you know, and if you explode into pieces from that, that would certainly be a shame. After all, your tainted blood would stain my robes," he goaded.

I continued rubbing, if possible, harder.

"Muddy-muddy-bloody-blood," he sang.

I paused to stare at him. Did he really just…?

He scoffed and lifted his chin, giving me a lovely sneer. "I don't care how immature you think I am. I can do whatever the hell I want, thanks."

Whatever. The little roach could go and get his head guillotined for all I cared, as long as he left me alone to my essay in peace. Unfortunately, some higher being must have thought it would be fun to torture me some more.

I returned to my essay for a total of five seconds before I felt something prod at my hair. Giving an exasperated sigh, I finally turned to him and snapped, "What?"

He had on his face a queer look, as if caught in between being disgusted and fascinated. "Do all Mudbloods have hair like this? I don't think I've ever seen hair more atrocious."

"No," I replied curtly, "they don't. And I'd sorely appreciate it if you leave me the bloody hell alone."

His lips quirked up amusedly. "Dirty words from a dirty mouth; how predictable."

I glared at him for a full eight seconds and went back to my essay, reprimanding the beast inside of me that was insisting that I launch myself at the infuriating prat and attack him with great fervor. I did, however, clutch my eraser and pretended that the words on my paper were representative of his face.

Just as I was about to rip a hole in the parchment with my eraser, he gave a loud yawn. "You bore me, Mudblood. I sure hope we don't run into each other anytime soon. Wouldn't want any muddy bloody germs, you see." Clearly thinking that he was a natural comedian of some sort, he laughed and stalked back out the library, interrupted in his maniacal laughter only when Madam Pince cut him off with an angry glare and a few well-chosen words that left him sulking.

My heart swelled with gratitude for the old lady until she looked at me and gave me a look that plainly snapped, "You mind your own business now, girl."

I stared down and grimaced at my paper, which read: Dragon's blood has many essential uses that can more than likely be credited to its purity, which is purer than Mudblood Granger's blood, but is akin to dirt when compared to the likes of the Malfoy blood.

I narrowed my eyes at the words through the mass of blue eraser shavings and gave myself a good whack on the head with a nearby book. What. The. Hell.

Outside the library doors, a smug Draco Malfoy pocketed his wand. Oh, how he loved that spell.

xXx

When I was younger, my mother had told me the same thing every mother told her child: violence is not the answer. Hence, I decided not to enlighten her about the incident during my third year. In my defense, he had been asking for it. Three years of pent-up frustration had to go somewhere, and it just happened to come out in the form of a well-deserved slap.

Then again, perhaps my mother was right with her other old adage: what goes around comes around. Later that day, Harry and I were caught in a whirlwind of danger…again. Honestly, doesn't that boy ever know when to take a break? But that diverts me from my other event that year.

It was a few days after Harry and I had gone back in time to fix everything. I was back in the library; only, it was completely desolate at that time, for exams were over. That's why when he came over to sit down, I was momentarily surprised.

"Malfoy."

"Mudblood."

"Piss off."

He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, unfazed and not at all acquiescent to my demand. "You know, that's the first time you've addressed me in our meetings."

"They're not meetings, Malfoy. They're twisted encounters in which I kindly ask you to back off, and you rudely ignore my appeals."

He scoffed. "I hardly believe that 'piss off' is a kind request."

"Yes, well, you've been grating on my nerves lately, haven't you?" I saw him unconsciously brush the cheek I had so fiercely struck previously. The mere memory brought a smile to my lips, and I went back to working on my essay.

One interesting magical device that could be utilized efficiently to the advantage of wizards and for the safety of Muggles is the Muggle Guard. When touched by a non-magical person, it will—

He scowled and glanced over to the parchment. "What are you even doing up working on an essay for? You know just as well as I do that exams finished four days ago."

I didn't look up. "I don't see how it's any of your business."

"I make things my business."

I gave an incensed sigh. "If I tell you, will you go away?"

He turned his attention to his immaculate cuticles. "Perchance."

"There's an internship that I'm applying to this summer, and the application's due in a week. I need to finish and revise this essay by then."

"On?" he prodded.

"The Muggle Guard. It's something I'm proposing to be built for the safety of the Muggles in case they ever come across a magical item."

"How dull."

I frowned. "And this is why I don't engage in conversation with you." Accompanying this statement was the removal of my bright blue eraser from my bag, an action that had a sudden familiarity to it whenever he was around.

"Well, it just seems so…boring. Quaint little items like that are sold in stores everywhere. Why don't you invent something interesting? Say, a cure for Lycanthropy? I'm sure Professor Lupin would like a dose of that."

He was mocking me again, if his shark-like grin was anything to go by.

"Oh? And if I do something good for the world, you should too. Say, drop off the face of the Earth?"

"Just as soon as you do humanity a favor and—"

"Kill off the rest of my Mudblood species," I interrupted acerbically. "The joke's getting a bit old, Malfoy."

"I was going to say get rid of that mop atop your head." His grin turned into an amused chuckle. "But if even you think your kind should be wiped clean, by all means, go ahead."

"I hate you."

He raised an eyebrow. "I'm disinclined to agree."

"Really, now." My eraser paused in its vigorous scrubbing. "Name one thing that you've done to me that I shouldn't hate you for."

He pondered this for quite awhile, and I took this opportunity to return to my parchment, which did not seem to be cooperating with my eraser.

"We'll see," he announced.

He had been silent for so long that when he had reaffirmed his presence, I almost re-enacted the scene from our first year where I had jumped up and quite cleanly given his nose a nasty bruise. "Sorry?"

"We'll see," he repeated. "I'll do something nice one of these days."

I gave him a stare reminiscent of the one I sent him second year after he had created an impromptu song from his nickname for me. It was meant to send a message that I thought his sanity was a bit dubious.

"I'm not crazy." Could that kid read minds or something?

I asked him so.

He gave me a look that said he doubted my sanity. "I'm not psychic, Granger. But I am tired." He rubbed his cheek again. "My jaw still gets sore at times from that, Mudblood. Don't do it again soon." Getting up, he sauntered away.

I felt a twinge of disappointment. Madam Pince had not appeared to chastise him. When I turned my attention to my essay, I threw down my eraser and buried my face in my hands, letting out an exasperated, shrill growl.

One interesting magical device that could be utilized efficiently to the advantage of wizards and for the safety of Muggles is the Muggle Guard. When touched by a non-magical person, it will turn and let loose all of its frustrations upon the nearest innocent civilian, for example, Draco Malfoy, who will be subject to be victimized cruelly.

I sighed and proceeded to call Malfoy a self-righteous, infuriating, interfering arse. To no one, of course.

Closing the library doors behind him, he paused as he heard a sharp oath. Oh yes, he definitely loved that spell.

xXx

There's that one moment in every girl's life that she dreams of: the moment when everyone's gazes descend on her, jaws drop open, eyes widen, collective gasps arise, and she realizes that she is, hypothetically, royalty in the room. I had my moment that year.

The Yule Ball was a fantastic experience for me, though I never would have ever imagined just how fantastic it would be. Viktor was ever the gentleman, and it was an added bonus that he was graceful and light on his feet from all that Quidditch training. It was also nice to see looks filled with envy as opposed to ones filled with disdain. Hell, I even caught Zabini's appreciative gaze. Needless to say, an auspicious look from a Slytherin certainly upped my confidence.

What happened with Ron was not completely his fault. I was setting him up for it by going to the ball with Viktor, and I knew it. A part of me had half-hoped that he would confront me with his jealousy while the other half primly remarked that that would evolve into a scene I wouldn't want. Turns out, the latter half was right.

Completely overrun with resentment and envy, he acted utterly irrationally. The prat didn't know what he wanted, and he sure as hell wasn't going to admit it. Suffice to say, Harry picked Ron over me, as Ron was the closer, male best friend, and I was left pathetically sniveling on the stairs, alone. After awhile, I realized how ridiculous I must've looked. So, heaving a dramatic sigh, I pulled myself up and moped as I ambled back to my dorm. In all my misery, I failed to notice a glint of silver in the darkness.

Following some more brooding and some choice words about the red-haired idiot, I tried to fall asleep but found myself staring up at my canopy for what seemed like hours. Giving into my insomnia, I decided to sneak into the library to finish up an essay.

A dear friend to Helga Hufflepuff and one of the four founders of Hogwarts, Rowena Ravenclaw is one of the most famous witches known to wizardkind. She is to have stated once 'we will teach those whose intelligence is surest', which explains why the smartest and cleverest wizards and witches are sorted into Ravenclaw. One particular witch, one of fame and vast intelligence, who should have been placed into Ravenclaw, but sorted accidentally into another house, was—

All of a sudden, I paused and then wrinkled my nose in distaste. The scent of his cologne had become so familiar that I caught a whiff of his fragrance before he even came into sight. Sweet Merlin, here we go again.

"Granger."

"Ferret."

I knew if I turned around, I'd be facing a scowl.

"You're a regular comedian."

"Thanks, I try."

He sat down beside me in his usual spot.

"Love letter to Krum?"

His question was met with silence.

"Weasley?"

Again, I ignored him.

One particular witch, one of fame and vast intelligence, who should have been placed into Ravenclaw, but sorted accidentally into another house, was—

"Potter?"

Was…

"Oh no, don't tell me it's me."

I closed my eyes and counted to ten slowly. Twice.

"Malfoy, I can safely assure you that if I was writing anything, you would hardly be a topic of interest, unless the essay was about pale, atrociously blond gits who bother intelligent brunettes at inopportune moments."

He raised an eyebrow. "Intelligent brunette? Getting a big head, aren't we?"

I scoffed. "I wouldn't have room for one, seeing as your own ego occupies all remaining airspace."

"Your cruel words wound me, Granger."

"What, no 'Mudblood'? What happened to my official nickname?"

He shrugged. "I figured now that you can't hate me, I shouldn't give you a reason to hate me."

I stared at him a stare that told him that I was, once again, assured me of his insanity.

He flashed me a brilliant smile, and I became instantly wary. "What?"

"I shrunk your teeth."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Remember the hex that hit your teeth?"

It was my turn to scowl. "Vaguely."

"See? And now your teeth look infinitely better than those beaver fangs you used to have!"

I tried to figure out if I should be flattered or insulted. Probably the latter, as he was generous in handing those out to me.

"You did absolutely nothing, Malfoy. Madam Pomfrey fixed my teeth. You merely exacerbated the problem."

"Ah, but without my help, you wouldn't have looked as magnificent as you did tonight, would you?" Before I could point out that he had just paid me a compliment, he added, "That is, before you started moping around like a lost puppy dog without its paws on Weasel."

I pressed my lips together in a thin line but didn't reprimand Malfoy for calling Ron names.

"Come on, Granger," he mocked. "Tell me about how you were in love with the red-headed brat and how you took Krum to the ball to make him jealous."

At my slightly shocked look, he gave a derisive snort. It suited his pig-like personality. "You'd like to think you're mysterious, don't you, Granger? Hate to break it do you, darling, but I can read you like those books you adore. You're not that hard to figure out, or to provoke, for that matter. My advice?"

He leaned forward, and I sat back, folding my arms across my chest. "If you've got nothing nice to say, keep it to yourself," I replied crossly.

Ignoring my statement, he continued, "Drop him. There are a million other guys who'd give an arm and a leg for a date with you. When Krum asked you to the ball, he asked you for a reason." He paused and his aristocratic features twisted into a look of disdain. "Though I can't even begin to fathom why."

Did he really have to be such a snobby bastard? He couldn't say anything without paying me an insult. I voiced my thoughts to him angrily.

Completely unfazed, he leaned back in his chair. "It seems Weasel and Potter's pet has a temper."

That self-righteous, cocky, narcissistic, unbelievably arrogant—

I raised my hand as a repeat of last year's event, but he caught my hand before it came in contact with his cheek.

Leaning in close with a lazy smirk, he remarked, "I don't think so, Granger." His almost inaudible statement barely reached my ears, and a long silence stretched after his words.

We sat, staring at each other; me, resentful, and he…with a look that I couldn't decipher. Not only was the quiet making my uncomfortable, but also, I was suddenly far too concerned with the realization of our proximity. His hand still clutched mine, and it hovered awkwardly next to our faces. Still, the warmth of his skin pressing next to mine made me very aware of the sudden heat. All I knew was that there wasn't enough air in this room, and the air regulation spell had somehow become defunct, shooting up the temperature.

I pulled back abruptly, breaking whatever it was we had had.

"I think we've both had enough for the night, don't you think?" To my surprise, there was a tone of defeat in my own voice. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him stare at me for about a half a minute before he stood up.

"Get to sleep soon, Granger." As he walked away, he added, "That's quite an interesting essay you've got there."

I looked down at my parchment.

A dear friend to Helga Hufflepuff and one of the four founders of Hogwarts, Rowena Ravenclaw is one of the most famous witches known to wizardkind. She is to have stated once 'we will teach those whose intelligence is surest', which explains why the smartest and cleverest wizards and witches are sorted into Ravenclaw. One particular witch, one of fame and vast intelligence, who should have been placed into Ravenclaw, but sorted accidentally into another house, was Hermione Something-or-Other Granger, a surprisingly bright witch whose intellect is only surpassed by Draco Malfoy's, because, of course, Draco Malfoy excels at everything. If she was slightly more attractive, more devious, and did not lug around two baboons as friends, she would have most certainly been placed in the all-mighty Slytherin house, but unfortunately, Muggleborns are not allowed in Slytherin, so Ravenclaw would have been the next best choice.

This time, I let a small smile slip onto my lips.

If a lone student had happened to pass by the library doors, he would have keeled over in disbelief, as the smartly dressed blond standing outside the doors had a genuine smile gracing his features.

xXx

And that's Part One, summarizing the First through Fourth Years.

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