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* * * August 24, 1997 * * *

"OmiGHOD. She still hasn't owled you?"

Pansy was funny when she was affronted. She had that upturned nose, and when her nostrils flared, her resemblance to a pig sniffing for truffles was uncanny. Sprawled out on her parents' porch swing, looking up at her with his head on her thigh, the illusion was practically complete.

"Snotty little bint," muttered Draco, though the irony that he'd made no effort to contact Granger never crossed his mind. He didn't really care if she made an awkward ass of herself with the new prefects. Truth be told, he didn't really care about anything except convincing Pansy that they really could get it on in her bedroom while her parents were home, using judiciously placed Silencing Spells and a good Forbidding on the door. Hogwarts was only a week away, and it was more fun to do her when there was an element of risk involved.

"Poor Drakey, you're going to have a miserable time stuck in a dormitory with her," Pansy said, stroking his hair. "She's bound to invite every hooligan in the castle to lounge around in your common room. No one who's anyone will be able to visit!"

"Oh, I won't be forced out of my own suite by her Mudblood friends, don't worry. But it'll be embarassing to ask people over, knowing she might prance through any minute. I suppose I'll be spending a lot of time down in Slytherin."

"You're always welcome in my room," Pansy remarked with a sly grin.

Yeah, I know--as long as I'm buying the butterbeer and roses. He didn't mind; flowers were a small price to pay for pussy, and he liked a good butterbeer in the evenings as well. "What would I do without you, Pans?"

Mrs. Parkinson poked her head through the front door. "Draco, dear, your mother's Flooing. She asked me to send you to home."

Merlin in an iron maiden, what's wrong now? "Forgive me, fair lady," he said as he rose from Pansy's lap, "but duty calls."

The girl smirked. "You're so full of it, Draco. Floo me in the morning, okay?"

That sounded promising; Mrs. Parkinson always played canasta on Monday, and Mr. Parkinson would be at work. Upon emerging at the Manor, however, all thoughts of future bliss were snuffed like a candle. Mother was sitting in the main parlor with The Yap Dog herself.

"Here he is now, my dear. Draco!" she called, as if it were possible NOT to notice them from fifteen feet away. She turned her head so that Granger couldn't see the evil eye she fixed upon him, conveying the straightforward message, "You screw this up and you're dead, Buster."

"Mother," he said with a curt nod. "Granger."

That dropped the temperature in the room. "Miss Granger tells me the two of you need to discuss your duties for school," Mother said with more than a hint of warning in her tone. "Why don't I go prepare some refreshments for you, while you work?" With a graciously phony smile to Granger and one that looked like it would sprout fangs at any moment for her son, Narcissa departed for the kitchen, leaving him alone in front of an open Floo and the bay window with the Mudblood.

After a brief staredown, the girl spoke up. "You have a lovely home. Your mother was very kind to invite me over right away when I Flooed."

He rather expected her to chirp like a shy mouse, but her voice was firm and no-nonsense. "What do you expect?" he said coolly. "You're hotter than dragon puke right now, Granger. Of course she's going to knock herself out for your every wish. Just like everybody else is."

She scowled. "It's a shame you never took a page from her book and learned how to behave politely. Even with someone you don't like." There was no question that the latter referred specifically to him.

Taking it in the spirit of challenge, Draco put on his best fifty-Galleon smile and, in a voice dripping with noblesse oblige, responded, "Why Miss Granger, I assure you, I'm a well-schooled gentleman when the occasion calls for it. In the capacity of Head Boy, you can rely on me to be impeccably polite, as befits the dignity and responsibility of the position." Flopping into the nearest armchair and losing the smile, he snarled, "But I'm not Head Boy for another week, am I?"

She stared at him in a most disconcerting way, as though he were some sort of scientific specimin that she had just dissected, and was now memorizing all the strange, disgusting parts inside. "As you say," she replied.

This would have been an excellent time for Mother to return with a tray of little sandwiches. He'd provoked her in the past; he expected a snappy comeback or at least a burst of self-righteous anger. She didn't even look hurt, just... bored. Not in a "I'm going to pretend that didn't bother me one bit" way, but in an honest-to-goodness "Oh, are you still here?" manner. Draco folded his arms over his chest, feeling a strong sense that he had done something childish and embarassing, and furious with Granger for being there to witness it.

"Well, then, I'll be going now," she said impassively, rising from her chair.

Oh, fuck. "Wait." Mother would come apart at the seams if Granger left after less than a minute. He cleared his throat. "Dumbledore told us to plan... the schedules and things. We really ought to do that."

She didn't exactly roll her eyes, but her expression conveyed the message anyway: That's why I'm here, genius; nice of you to catch up. But she returned to her seat without a word and pulled a roll of parchment from her little bag.

Mother showed up with a tray of caviar, of all things. Could she be more transparent? When he brought home a girl he wanted to impress, they'd get fruit and cheese. It was all he could do to bite back a snide comment suggesting she'd never seen such food before. But he was glad he'd kept it quiet, for Granger launched into it with vigor, and he realized again that she and the other bigshots had been living the high life all summer. "This is very good," she said, correctly.

"Only the very best for you, Granger." Damn it! It had just slipped out. This whole Head Boy thing might require some practice after all.

Her jaw fell, but at least he didn't screw up again and remark about "seafood." "Is this your plan, then?" she asked quietly. "All smiles in public, and all barbs when we're alone? Because I really don't want to bother, Malfoy; it's just too much work. We can divide up the duties right now and go our separate ways for the rest of the year."

He thought about it for a moment, and it didn't sound like a trap. "That suits me," he finally growled. "You want to be in charge of writing the Prefect schedules, and I'll do the nightly patrols?" He'd been looking forward to roaming the castle at the end of the day; it was one of his favorite aspects of being a Prefect.

Apparently Granger felt the same way. She narrowed her eyes and said, "We can alternate months."

"Deal," he said, but made no effort to shake hands on it. "I'll take patrols first."

She looked displeased, but nodded. "Fine. I'll write up the September schedule before we take the train. You'll have to show all the new Prefects the patrol routes." When he nodded, she stood and gathered up her bag. "Well, then. See you at King's Cross."

It was strange, watching her leave. He made no effort to rise politely from his chair, let alone escort her to the Floo or throw in the powder for her. Such things were common courtesy and he deliberately withheld them as an expression of disdain. But she didn't react at all--not so much as an indignant huff. She simply left. He wondered if, being Muggleborn, she was truly that out of touch with the customs of wizard society. But then his gaze fell on the caviar spoon and he was reminded again that she'd been immersed in it all summer.

"So uncouth she just doesn't care about proper behavior," he murmured halfheartedly to himself, but his insides felt inexplicably twisted up.