Title: Their Secret
Status: WIP
Rating: M

Summary: Years pass, and something like love grows from just a simple glance and then a million more.

Word Count: 4601
Beta: To both M and M (lool, did anyone else just think of chocolate like I did?) for being the most amazing, patient, and understandable betas in the world. You have helped this story more than you could possibly assume, and…I JUST LOVE YOU BOTH. Thanks to the first M, hahah, for making time in her schedule for this, and… Well I guess that works for the second M, too. Thanks for everything, you spectacular women. [Revised in 2018 – no beta]
Notes: A little short story I wrote for the dmhgficexchange! It's probably one of my favourites now; tell me what you think.


Their Secret: One


Fourth-year
December

Hermione has never quite gotten used to Draco Malfoy.

She isn't sure she wants to, considering it is him, but she believes the desire to do so is justified given their complicated past. She doesn't know him, not even a little bit, but sometimes she feels she understands him better than anyone else could. Or, far less often, more than he'd allow anyone else to know.

She isn't naïve enough to believe, however, that he's been trying to reveal himself to her - albeit strangely - for the past three years. Talking would be one important, needed factor for that to be possible, and they certainly hadn't been doing any of that. If anything, she'll classify it as a game he started, because she'd rather blame it on that most times than dwell on what his motives might be.

Especially with his strange (desired) behavior.

The slow burn of his gaze is always present, no longer as awkward as it used to be, but that is hardly an incentive at all when she remembers—late at night and buzzing from nervousness about the future—that he is doing it more often and more forcefully (lustfully) than in previous years.

She even recalls arriving at King's Cross just a few months previous; Hermione had not even been two steps onto the train before she'd felt the trepidation that came with someone's glance, and only when she'd caught his eyes with her own had she let the sigh of relief escape her. He'd kept watching, of course, like he usually did, but she'd felt heat evade her, a blush developing from the intensity, and she'd settled on averting her gaze uncomfortably. She had never been so violated (electrified) by his look before, not like that, and she'd written it off as a one-time occurrence. Until, just days later, he'd done it again. Then again, and again, and again.

She thinks she should be more worried than she is about this change, considering it is Draco Malfoy and he has been looking at her like that for the past three months, but she can't find it within her to finally confront him and stop it all. She would rather pin it down to the antics of Malfoy, or a mere ploy in the monotony of his life, than actually believe it was for…for more; something less menacing. The idea itself makes her scoff.

Whether she likes it or not, however, she has come to terms that it simply isn't normal for one to look at another so often, let alone an enemy, and that's not even considering the powerful reaction it creates from her. Merlin, she thinks about it more than she doesn't.

Some nights, and almost all nights in the beginning, she had deemed it dangerous, irritating, and above all else, creepy. She remembers contemplating going to Dumbledore, McGonagall, Harry at times, shaking with fear from will-he-kill-me-or-will-he-not thoughts, but she had stamped down on them with all her willpower and then some. She'd supposedly been the smartest witch from Muggle descent to attend Hogwarts in generations, and if she wasn't able to fix her problems now, then she'd have no experience at all for—what she learned after only a year of being friends with the Great Harry Potter—a particularly precarious future.

Repeatedly, she'd tell herself that he hadn't done anything yet, not physically at least, and if she was safe, then she had nothing to worry about. Months passed before she realized that he was still staying his distance, far away from her, and by then she had already gotten used to it that she no longer feared for her life whenever she was around him.

After all, three years of his concentration (fascination) have gone by without a hitch.

Malfoy had started this thing back in their first-year, though she had been largely unfeeling toward it at first, and partial to avoiding it altogether. Only when he'd made it clear that they were enemies – "Filthy, little Mudblood!" – did she feel the simmering tension in his glances, the burn escalating with every moment. Only then did she notice that this wasn't normal, schoolboy curiosity.

It was something else entirely.

She is still uncertain on what precisely his motives may be, and only the mystery is what keeps her busy on trying to discover why he had started this thing in the first place, and then what kept him from stopping after the first time. It is the reason, she tells herself continually, that she allows it to happen at all. Or that it is what keeps her from searching him out and demanding the purpose behind his actions, and then insist he stop it all, if only because she couldn't stand (handle) the way he made her feel.

And it's surely not because of how she acts (comes alive) under his gaze, and the imminent prospect that, if she did confront him, how fast that will stop.

Not that it even feels good, of course, but she can't help but notice the blatant difference. Rather than his glances a subtle thought in the background, this year he makes her constantly uncomfortable and aware. The sensation is doubled, tripled sometimes, when she stops to think over Harry's Triwizard competition, the reality of what could only be an upcoming war, and the unsettling emotions that follow.

She wants to curse him, several times if she can fit that in, for sending her in such a whirlwind of feelings recently, and then continuing on as if she preferred this to nothing at all. Hermione recalls getting her anger out once, punching him in fact, and she smiles to herself at the thought—a glare had been the only type of look he'd sent her for more than a few weeks, and every time she'd caught sight of one, she'd had to stifle a smile in the crook of her arm.

Sometimes, because she is desperate for the solution, she thinks he might finally approach her, and the thought always makes her hands tremble and her stomach coil into severe knots. However, she immediately dismisses the idea when she recalls that three years have already passed without incident, years in which they haven't once said anything to each other besides insults, and the possibility of wanting to now is next to impossible.

He can't finally want to speak to her after all this time.

She has already managed to envision a likely scenario if that happens—if ever a teacher thought they'd be excellent partners and were then forced to speak and work next to each other, or if she had forgotten a book in the Great Hall at the same time he was just leaving for classes, an entire hallway to themselves for whatever might happen once they were alone. She has come up with a thousand more, always more nerve-wracking than the last, but it always leads her to the same conclusion.

It would be explosive.

This year, however, has her shaking in indecision from the possibility of what could (would) happen if they were ever alone.

He has grown up from the boy in years past, she could tell. This small difference, however, changed something deep within him as well, and now it is more than obvious he is comfortable in his own skin—enough that she has to worry, every day, whether or not he is going to suddenly have the gall to pull her into an empty classroom, or walk over to her one day.

The change has made the reality of an encounter more vibrant, though she tries to convince herself that he would have no motivation to take her aside, perhaps for a talk, because that would be trivial when matched to the three years of building up to…to whatever it is they are doing. No meeting between them could equal the amount of tormenting (exhilarating) behaviour he has put her through, and they would either be disappointed with a glare and an insult, or he would try something else entirely.

She doesn't like to think of that prospect often, if only because it is Draco Malfoy, and the likelihood of that happening is minimal at best. Hermione is forced to, sometimes, when she realizes that there could be no other ending of their years of constant staring and awareness of each other—not even an argument to end all arguments.

But then the Yule Ball commences, and what she previously thought true regarding Draco Malfoy is rendered precisely the opposite.


When she walks in, arms locked with Viktor Krum's, the only thing on her mind is Malfoy.

This is not new, not even close to being unusual, but the butterflies in her stomach and the tingles resonating in her hands are, and the sole thought that plagues her is whether he will see her tonight. She has not looked this good in ages, if ever, and for all the work she has done (for Krum) she wants to see his reaction.

Hermione has always been the plain, drab girl, and he has been watching her through all her growing up—will probably continue until their seventh-year—but he will notice this difference more than anyone else.

She can feel his gaze before she even sees him, and her heart stutters, stops, and comes back to life with a frantic beat when she notices that he is with Pansy Parkinson. They are both staring at her, wide-eyed. She isn't sure what she is most confused about; that she cares that he has brought a date or that she is stunned when not even a hint of an insult escapes his lips as she passes fully. His gaze is still on her, steady, but she focuses her attention back on Viktor instead.

In the end, she's more enamored by him than Malfoy.

Convincing herself had never been so hard.


She argues with Harry, Ron, and it hurts that they can't be happy for her. She has stuck with Harry and Ron ever since the beginning, and every disagreement she's ever had with them has always been for their own good, to keep them alive. They are selfish in their own regard, and she is more than angry at the fact that they had the audacity to call her a traitor, for something as simple as a date.

Viktor finds her, sitting in a corner, hunched over the nearest table, shoulders shaking. She pulls away at his hesitant touch, but revels in the presence he brings with him and appreciates not being alone anymore. He slowly comes closer, filling her up with words and sentiments and she finds herself wrapped in his arms minutes later.

She had agreed on joining him for the ball simply because he had asked. She isn't sure if that had given the wrong impression, but she figured that this was the only night she'd be spending in his presence, and thus could decline any of his advances, if even he attempted any. Considering they hadn't known each other long, she was almost certain he wouldn't.

It doesn't feel right for some reason, but she doesn't have anything to compare it to, and so instead stays in his arms, blaming it on the turn of events and nothing else. Later, she will pull back, he will kiss her lightly on the lips, and had she had the time to pull away from that as well, she would have. She bids him goodnight, claiming she had a lovely evening, thanking him over and over again for staying with her during her crying, but that she is all right, and just, thanks, very tired, but thank you, no, she doesn't need to be walked back, either. Yes, she will be fine.

She feels strange, though. She doesn't want Viktor's assurances; she doesn't want his soft touches and glances, or his dances. Hermione wants Harry and Ron to forgive her, to see that she isn't a traitor (she doesn't even want to be with him!), but above all else, she yearns for Malfoy's gaze. It burns her, keeps her alive, and fuels her the strength to deal with the monotony of keeping Ron in line, or keeping Harry out of danger, while keeping up with her studies as well.

It is her distraction in a cluster of chaos, of death-sentences, of Harry Potter's fate, and all that comes with it.

This distraction, however, wasn't expected to be waiting for her on the way back to the Gryffindor Tower, ready to pull her arm and then the rest of her behind a tapestry big enough for, perhaps, only one person with a little extra room.

She doesn't expect any of this.

But, she reminds herself, she has never expected anything from Draco Malfoy, and tonight is the first night that she is proved completely and utterly wrong.


"It's just me, Granger." It is whispered, though it comes out much louder in the silence, and she is more than just nervous at his voice alone. It is dark, she can barely see his outline in the shadow of everything else, but she feels the presence of a body against her. Close. Too (comfortably) close.

She can feel walls and him surround her, but she isn't sure if what is pushing him so close is the constraint of space, or if he has made the decision to overwhelm her simply by his ] touch or proximity. Grabbing her so ungracefully had left a strong hold on her right elbow, and a hand steadying her along the waist—this alone causes her breath to catch, because she's never thought he'd want to be within a foot of her, fascination or not.

Hermione can feel the heat of his hands, of his body, and she can't even get past that to think of why he could've possibly brought her here in the first place. After all this time.

He has been watching her forever, she has watched him back, but now they are here, forcing all of it into realness. There are so many things she can think to ask about, but she is too surprised by his presence altogether to form coherent thoughts, questions, and then to voice them. And to him of all people.

She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, thoughtful. Hermione is also not naïve enough to believe that, even if she got that far, he would take the time to answer her incessant curiosity. Though he has not stopped himself from looking her way when he can, it does not shadow the reality that he has insulted her for the better part of all their encounters, or that she is more acquainted with his sneer over his cooperation.

And really, he has been terribly rude all these years.

Hermione hurts more than she wants to admit when he spits her name, her heritage, her faults. She's cried herself to sleep an innumerable amount, and shed tears in the cubicles of several bathrooms, but it has only developed into a bigger problem with how well he has learned her habits. Coupled with the deep concentration he has set on her as of late, emotions mingle and explode before her, confusing her beyond anything she's ever felt before.

She is able to convince herself that she (certainly) did not crave Draco's attention when Viktor had held her in his arms. She had argued, though she shouldn't have even thought of Draco at that time, that it is because he has been a constant in her life, and she simply can't just ignore that. As were Harry and Ron, and while Malfoy made an appearance in her thoughts, her best friends did more.

Which makes everything okay.

But having him stand before her halts her from persuading herself, over and over again, of things she has known for a while now. That, really, she can't find him annoying because she lets it happen, and she can't hate his glances because she returns them as often as she can, and thinks about them for longer than she should before she sleeps. He fills the air with tension and things left unsaid, and she always feels this along her spine, her neck, raising goosebumps.

She looks to where his eyes are, catching them with her own, and the fire builds again inside her, magnified at having him here.

She swallows, suddenly at a loss for words, because she is sure he is waiting for some type of reply. "What is– Why are…"

Wonderful. Leave it to Draco Malfoy to reduce Hermione Granger to speechlessness.

"I saw you earlier," he says, probably by way of explanation. She can't fathom why he wants to see her, after all these years, and more importantly, the purpose of this at all. And she is only staying (obviously) because she wants to find out.

"About what?" She can hear her voice shake, indecisive, and she is completely uncertain where she wants this conversation to go; whether she should just walk out now, no conversing at all, or stay and see where it takes her.

"You were crying," he whispers, bringing a hand up to her cheek.

The touch is unexpected, but it is moments later that she notices she hasn't cringed and, in fact, she is slowly leaning toward him. He wipes away the remnants of her tears, with both hands, then pushes his right hand to the nape of her neck, fully grabbing hold, and rests his other hand around her waist, a more possessive touch than before.

That's when she realizes that she has been ridiculously incorrect in her assumptions of his real reasons.

Or his new reasons, she thinks.

But reasons nonetheless.

It's not something romantic. She can only think of it as something of a deeper connection. Of not really knowing each other at all, but having a certain interest in finding out, in showing themselves after the three years of observation. It is something else entirely, indeed.

She looks up, tingling from his body touching hers, and finally drags a hand toward him, previously immobile beside her, before pulling him the tiniest bit closer by the hem of his shirt.

It isn't an embrace, not really, but the warmth and tenderness of a mutual understanding. They don't know each other, not even close, but he has watched her too much during the past few years not to know her tendencies, or her weaknesses, or anything at all. The same could be said for her, too, since she has witnessed more about him than he probably gives her credit for.

"You've made me cry before, Malfoy," she says slowly, breaking the silence since his previous comment. She has never thought of admitting this to him, not even moments ago, but it is the only thing she can think to say.

He leans forward, then, resting his forehead against her shoulder, breathing toward her neck, and she wraps her arm more firmly around him when his arm snakes around her waist. Hermione can feel her heart beating, faster now than just minutes before, and it is in this moment alone when their bodies align that she realizes this is nothing like how Viktor made her feel.

What a terrifying thought.

A few silent moments pass, then: "I don't mean to. I don't…you don't understand, Granger. Not fully."

"You've never let me try." She has been angered since second-year, when the insults started, because she has never understood his motive, his reasons for not ever talking to her, and the anger multiplied the moment she realized that it could have been like this between them. That, really, he has some sort of decency inside of him after all, and though she believes it might just be the power of their first encounter, he can still become this person.

"I thought you would have been able to figure it out, at the very least." She shivers from his breath, not used to the overwhelming feeling of a male wrapped around her, against her, and her arms pull him closer unconsciously.

"I…tried, you know. I really did. I figured…I figured, after second-year, it was to torment me, to make me squirm and bring me down. To make you win, somehow, in a very strange way. But you kept…you kept staring…and I didn't have any other conclusion to come to because…because it's me. I'm Hermione Granger, best friend of Harry Potter, and…" She trails off, suddenly understanding, and his hand flexes at her back when she lets out a heavy breath. If his closeness is anything to go by, he wants to be her friend but… "You can't. You can't even talk to me. You can't… Why now?" she whispers, shrugging her shoulder so she can better look at his face. It is still dark, but it is enough. "What is this?"

She can't hear over the blood rushing in her ears, the adrenaline coursing throughout her body, or the hammering of her heart. Hermione is much too affected by this encounter, especially from the revelation she just discovered, and has to bring a hand up to her head in an attempt to steady her thoughts. She has persuaded herself, over and over again, that it is just a game or a way to take her down. An incredibly affecting way, at that, but she has never deluded herself into believing that it is because he wants to get to know her, but can't—if only because of his house and her house, and the differences that exist between the two.

He shakes his head, and she can already see this as a bad sign, but she breathes in, out, in an attempt to calm her heartbeat and give her full attention to what he has to say. Three years have gone by without a problem, not even a snag, and she has a sinking feeling that something in his life, something that has happened, is causing this encounter.

Because he probably never had the intention to do so before. Not unless he thought he'd never get another chance.

Though this is new, completely unexpected, she understands wholly.

"What happened?"

"Things are starting to go wrong," he says, looking away. "With family. I just…it's been three years, Granger. I just wanted to see…see what it was like. If I was right about you."

"Right about me how?"

"Like you said," he whispers, "you're Hermione Granger, best friend of Harry Potter. I've noticed your personality since the beginning, I guess, and… It's all just curious to me, really." He presses a hand to her hip, grabbing her, and brings her a little closer. "Damn it all to hell, Granger. I can't…explain, and you must know why I can't, just like you don't know why you don't stop it. In the beginning, I thought you really would, but… I just can't stop."

Suddenly she wants to analyze his words, figure it all out and lay it on a table until she can make sense of it. But he doesn't give her that opportunity. Instead, he pulls her closer into him, and she revels once again in his warmth.

She will think of it all later, she decides, when her head isn't clouded by the pleasant feel of him against her.

They stand there for some time—Hermione tucked underneath his chin and his arms wrapped completely around her; as though he won't ever let go. She is more comfortable and at ease than she ever would have thought, and is stunned into silence by the events taking place in this alcove. They are still teenagers, young in their own minds and bodies, but this feels right (unlike Viktor) and she wants to stay here for more than just tonight, or come here with him more often. She thinks that this should have been happening all along, really.

Malfoy—the one she has seen all times before this—is not the Draco Malfoy that is in her arms, or the one that was curious enough about her tears to wait, wait, pull her aside, and bring up the awkwardness of the last three years with the best finesse he could have.

They are on the precipice of something, though she's not sure just what, but the beginning of war stands up high between them.

Slowly, he untangles his hands from around her, pulling back just the slightest. Hermione lets him, feeling the loss of heat when he pulls away from her. She understands (it's over) and steps back, wrapping her cardigan tightly around her. Regretting the loss of him already. Her legs have felt the breeze this alcove creates, but she has not realized until now.

She sighs heavily, and is regarded with silence as he steps as far as he can away. Hermione opens her mouth, intent on saying a parting word, but she can't think of anything succinct to say, or to summarize what she feels inside. Her emotions are a mess, if only because an hour ago she had felt little more than contempt toward him, and in less than thirty minutes, her view has turned around entirely.

Stepping toward the exit, she's not at all surprised to feel his hand enclose her arm, easily turning her attention back to him.

"I won't be able to see you again after this."

"I know," she whispers. She isn't sure what is going on, how this could have happened so quickly, but she already feels close to tears with the prospect of not being able to see him ever, like this. Not even if they snuck around, because that in itself is too dangerous already.

She gets that. She really does.

"Until after."

After leaving Hogwarts. After war. After death. She isn't sure, but she turns around and runs as fast as she can back to the Gryffindor Tower, her thoughts flying and erratic.

She is supposed to just forget about everything, partially because he isn't able to talk to her anymore, but she already finds that she can't settle for his stares and his glances and that's all. If anything, it only makes her more determined to get him to crack, to come to her again, because the minutes he'd spent with her had shown a maturity that contrasted with the stupidity and ridiculous antics he'd shown in the past.

She is already drawn toward it, the enigma that had just begun being Draco Malfoy, and she already knows that she'd let herself become his confidante, a friend. Or something. Anything to save him from what can very possibly be a painful future—if the fact he is considering not talking to her ever, even behind closed doors, is anything to go by.