to be not to be~ draco malfoy ~ year two

parstletongue

"you're not good, your not bad, your just nice."

-

I found myself seated across from Hermione in the study hall, each of us buried in our respective tasks—or at least I was attempting to be. It was the morning after Draco and I had delved into the forbidden arts, and remarkably, none of the Hogwarts staff seemed to harbor any suspicion toward me.

"You look much better than last night," Hermione observed, her voice laced with genuine concern. I glanced up from my books, surprised.

"Wait, you were there?" I asked, eyebrows raised. She nodded.

"Yes, along with Camille, Abigail, Harry, and Ron. You looked as though you were on death's doorstep, Violet," she said earnestly.

I exhaled softly, the weight of the night's events pressing down on me. "Someone hexed me. I'm alright now, though; it cleared up in a couple of hours," I reassured her, though the simplicity of my explanation didn't quite capture the night's complexity.

"How? Hexes like that usually take days to dissipate," Hermione questioned, her brow furrowing in puzzlement.

I paused, considering how much to disclose. The hex had indeed faded unusually quickly after performing the spell with Draco. Was it possible that the magic we channeled together had inadvertently cured me? I opted for a noncommittal shrug, not ready to delve into the darker truths.

In a change of topic, Hermione leaned in slightly, lowering her voice as though the walls themselves might overhear. "I did some research on the language you were speaking during the duel. It's called Parseltongue. It's a language for serpents. Salazar Slytherin himself was fluent in it."

She paused, her expression turning contemplative. "But, there's a possibility that... Draco could be the heir. He fits the profile, doesn't he? He views all Muggle-borns as inferior—it's disgusting, really. He's exactly the type that would embrace such a dark legacy."

I sighed, trying to reconcile the image of Draco Malfoy with that of the legendary Heir of Slytherin. Yes, his disdain for Muggle-borns was palpable, and his lineage was steeped in pure-blood supremacy. But Malfoy himself? It seemed a stretch, yet not entirely impossible.

"Eh, you could be right," I conceded, my mind churning with possibilities. "But how can we be sure? How do we get proof?"

Hermione's face lit up with a mix of excitement and mischief. "A Polyjuice Potion," she declared. "It allows you to take on the appearance of anyone, provided you have a strand of their hair. I've already discussed it with Harry and Ron. They're planning to transform into Crabbe and Goyle."

That made sense. Crabbe and Goyle were Malfoy's constant companions; surely if Draco was hiding any secrets, he might reveal them to his closest allies. But then a troubling thought struck me.

"Wait, who would I disguise myself as?" I asked, a sense of foreboding creeping in.

Hermione's expression faltered, signaling that I wouldn't like her answer. "P... Pansy Parkinson," she said hesitantly.

My eyes widened in horror. "Nope, no way. Do you think I want to spend my afternoon snogging Draco? Not a chance," I blurted out. The mere thought was unsettling.

"You don't have to snog him," Hermione rushed to clarify, her voice practical. "Just get close enough to gather some information, then get out. It's simple, really. Plus, the potion takes at least a month to brew."

The idea was less than appealing, yet if it could provide the answers we needed about Draco, perhaps it was worth the discomfort. As I mulled over this, a sudden cough from behind made me jump.