Harry Potter: Among Shadows and Silence

Every day she came back to her dorm, and he was there. Ready to drill her brain with insults and complaints, and it was starting to suck the life out of her. She would finish her lessons and return to the Head Girl dorm to complete her homework, knowing the library would be too packed until about eight in the evening, and he was always there. Just waiting; his tongue damp and prepared to goad her into arguments that could last for minutes or hours, depending entirely on how stubborn they both were.

It was always the same scornful words.

Filthy.

Bitch.

Mudblood.

Mudblood...

Sometimes they hurt, and sometimes not so much. She was slowly developing an immunity to them, but every now and then he'd throw something new at her, and it would completely shake her. Then again, she gave as good as she got. They were pretty evenly matched, she figured, but after a week of pulsing headaches and his voice thundering in her ears, she'd had enough.

On the eighth day of his stay – a Friday – during her Arithmacy lesson, Hermione had an epiphany, and it came in her mother's voice.

Nothing annoys a bully more than if you don't react. Or better yet, be nice to them.

She had never really paid much attention to those silly little bits of advice that parents gave, as more often than not they did nothing beneficial, but this she could use. Malfoy was clearly baiting her because he bored, and if she refused to acknowledge him, or simply play nice, it would do his head in. And if he got too aggravated, she could just lock him in his room until he'd calmed down.

She'd never treasured her wand so much.

Just two more lessons and she would be finished for the day. And he would be there. Waiting. And she would ignore him. No matter how much he wound her up, she would not react.

She would not react in the way he wanted.

Just Potions and Herbology to go, and she could test her little theory on the smarmy git.

.

.

There were four-hundred-and-five tiles between the kitchenette and the bathroom. All white, and fifty-six had cracks in them. It had taken him three days to confirm that, what with Granger's bloody interruption and his need to double-check.

He'd gone back to the floorboards then. There were ninety-seven all together, thirty-eight in his room and then he had added all the others in the dorm together too. That was excluding Granger's room, of course. He'd tried to break into her quarters two days ago and had received the same burning sensation he'd had from the main door.

Scolded fingertips. Peachy.

He'd woken up at two today after a very tempestuous night. More nightmares, and they were getting a lot worse. His eyes had automatically gone to his headboard to study his artwork, just as they had done each morning beforehand. As it stood, he had six marks, and Granger had five. According to his memory, and a reminder that on some days they'd argued more than once, he guessed it was Friday.

He'd arrived on a Friday so that would make this his eighth day in hell.

At least he was managing to keep a track on time. Sort of...

It really would have been more sensible to mark the day on his headboard instead of arguments tally. But sod it. He was winning, so it would stay as it was.

He left bed, changed, and went in search of something to do. To count. Just until Granger got back and they could have their usual battle of wits.

Granger...

Her scent was everywhere; clouding the atmosphere like a summer smog. That tee-tree soap she used, a hint of summer rain, and what he had finally established was cherry. Sweet with a bit of spice. Not entirely unpleasant; just bloody suffocating when he had to inhale it all day, everyday. Her aroma had even leaked into his room, and was now permanently wedged somewhere between his sinuses and his frontal lobe.

He couldn't get away from it. From her. And it was dragging insanity into his brain just that little bit quicker.

Making his way into the common area, he grabbed his usual bowl of cereal with an apple and searched for something to count...But there was nothing.

So he simply stared at the clock, and watched the minutes tick by until she came home at twenty to four, as she always did. Like clockwork. Her petite little frame slipped into the room and he indulged in a cruel smirk.

Let the games begin.

"Afternoon Mudblood," he greeted with bravado, not particularly bothered when she didn't react. It took her a while to get riled up to a level he relished. "And how did our favourite bookworm Gryffin-bore find the lessons today?"

"Fine, thank you," she responded evenly, taking her usual spot on the sofa.

He faltered. What, no 'sod off, Malfoy' today?

"I asked you a question-

"And I gave you an answer," she replied calmly. Too calm.

"It wasn't good enough," he criticised, walking closer to her.

She shrugged. Just shrugged and removed some parchment to start on her homework. The silent treatment, a challenge. Okay, he could play with that. She would react eventually. She had to. He'd waited for the spark in her eyes and the sharp retorts for over an hour. He wanted them. Thrived on them, actually.

"What the fuck is this?" he spat, snatching the parchment out of her fingers and examining it critically. "You even write like a malformed Muggle. Can't Mudbloods manage decent handwriting?"

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