just ahead of her.
With some trepidation, she looked. There was an aggressive looking patch of Tangleweed that had just roused and was hissing aggressively at them.
"There's a rather large tuft," Malfoy announced. "Have at it, then. I'm not about to be outdone by Millicent and Weasley."
Neither was she, actually. Hermione sighed as she grabbed the bucket. The second batch of Tangleweed was a sturdy specimen. Approaching quietly, she quickly gathered up the largest tentacles and yanked as hard as she could.
It was like swinging a hammer. The roots gave way more easily than expected and a huge deposit of wet dirt went hurtling through the air, whereupon most of it landed over Malfoy and his stupid, green apple.
The self-satisfied look was wiped clean from his face.
Hermione laughed in utter, evil delight. It was probably the first time she had felt genuinely cheered since their return to Hogwarts.
He didn' t look angry, rather it was the intense look she sometimes got from Ron or Harry before they chased her and tried to do something horrid like smearing treacle on her hair. The idea of Draco Malfoy doing such a thing was beyond ludicrous.
Still, she wasn't about to take her chances. Swallowing her giggles, she grabbed her bucket and trowel, and pressed on further down the path.
Malfoy didn't immediately follow and Hermione spent the next few, peaceful minutes trying to locate additional batches of Tangleweed. There were none. She looked up at the canopy of trees. The foliage was much denser now and it was unlikely that the lost saplings had made their way quite that far into the forest.
She began to backtrack and soon spotted a shady clearing just off the path, to her right. And slumbering in the middle of the clearing, surrounded by an impressive crop of mushrooms, rotting logs and dead leaves, was a healthy patch of adult Tangleweed.
Feeling rewarded, she walked up to what she assumed was the largest bunch, bent down and pulled at the base. Hermione soon discovered, not without some apprehension, that this wasn' t a group of small plants, rather it was one, large, broad Tangleweed. And it was hissing and spitting loudly enough to scare the Bowtruckles from the nearby trees.
Hermione dug her foot in the ground for more leverage, adamant that no magical plant, incorrectly classified or not, was going to get the better of her that day. With her left hand still maintaining a firm grip on the plant, she attempted to reach into her pocket for her wand, thinking that a quick Impedimenta would do the trick.
One of the tentacles snapped into action, latching onto her right gardening glove and pulling it off. Another tentacle followed, and without the protection offered by the glove, the thorns sank into the tender skin of her wrist and latched on. On instinct, she pulled her hand back, causing the barbs to break free from the tentacle and embed in her skin.
It was like getting stung by a dozen bees, all in the one spot. Hermione yelped, alternating between cursing and stomping her foot on the ground. The Tangleweed seemed equally flustered and began thumping its meaty arms against the earth in an intimidating fashion.
There was a brief, tense stand-off.
The commotion brought Draco casually strolling down the path, carrying no less than four bushels of Tangleweed, roots up. He wasn' t wearing his gloves, but he was, Hermione noticed, holding his wand. He was obviously subscribed to the 'I Don't Work Hard, I Work Smart' School of Thought. Coincidentally, Ron was also a member.
"Alright, settle down." He walked up to her, looking irritated. "That's what you get for wandering off on your own."
It wasn' t nearly so bad. There were a dozen small pinpricks where the barbs had latched on, but there were also two deep gouges smeared with toxic sap. Her skin was already beginning to welt up.
Malfoy tossed his things to the ground and then grabbed hold of her wrist to have a look. He peered closely.
"Bleed on me, Granger, and you'll be sorry."
Hermione could smell apple on his breath. She frowned down at her small, pink hand, held in his much larger, pale hands, so white in comparison to the blood on her wrist. She was wearing a colourful purple, resin ring on her right index finger that her youngest cousin had given her earlier in the ear. It was a sentimental piece which she treasured, but for some reason, now, she felt embarrassed by it. That, and her ink-stained,