Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. It's best that way.

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Glass Houses: Chapter One

Summary: When Draco and Hermione are trapped in Greenhouse #3 by a thunderstorm, they are forced to spend some quality time alone. Together. Does something besides plants start to blossom?

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"Perfect," Draco said acidly, peering out the glass of the greenhouse door. "The grounds are completely flooded."

Behind him, Hermione brushed the soil from her hands and folded her arms across her chest. When Draco glanced over his shoulder and saw her know-it-all expression and the cock of her hip, he rolled his eyes in disbelief and snorted.

"What," he asked, "are you really going to try and tell me you somehow predicted a thunderstorm and you were the only one who knew better?"

"I didn't say a word," Hermione said coolly.

"Trust me, you said plenty."

"I thought quite a lot of things."

Draco narrowed his eyes. "I knew it was a bad idea to volunteer to gather belladonna clippings," he grumbled.

"Why did you, then?" Hermione snapped.

"To earn Slytherin some House points for once—balance out the blatant Gryffindor favoritism. Why did you?"

"Out of the goodness of my heart," Hermione retorted. "Unlike you, I am not always scheming to get ahead. And I had no idea I'd be stuck with you, obviously."

"Obviously."

For a moment, they stood there listening to the rain sheet down around them, but then Draco rotated slowly on his heel and said, "I bet you wouldn't mind being stuck out here with Weasley."

"Because at least Ronald has a sense of humor."

"Ronald?"

Hermione's jaw tightened so hard the gnash of her teeth was audible.

"Oh, I see. Having a lover's quarrel, are we? What is it; he wouldn't volunteer because he wanted to stay inside by the fire and play Wizard's Chess with Potter and a hot mug of pumpkin spice? At least I have ambition. And, by the way, his sense of humor is practically imperceptible."

Hermione lifted her chin and turned away from him, making small adjustments to the clumps of belladonna they'd collected in baskets.

"Hit close to home, have I?" he drawled. "The difference between you and me, Hermione, is that you think things and I say them."

Hermione whirled toward him. "You just shut up about Ron and Harry, Malfoy. I know plenty enough about you and your family to say things that are just as hurtful. The difference between us is that I have integrity. Among other things."

Draco cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Isn't it comforting to know we've been having the same argument for seven years?"

"I'm sure it's not."

"But it is." Draco moved toward Hermione, circling around the large potting table in the center of the room, housing piles of soil and large plants that moved and furled of their own accord. "Throughout the years, we've been the only constant. It's a special thing we share."

"As if that's a good thing." Even as she responded, Hermione could see that Draco had been distracted by something.

"Excellent," he noted, sounding perturbed. He lifted one foot experimentally to the tune of an unpleasant squelching sound. "It's flooding."

Hermione followed his gaze to the growing puddles of muddy water on the hard-packed dirt floor of the greenhouse. She wiggled her toes inside her own damp shoes. "It's not that far to the castle," she said uncertainly. "I'm just going to make a dash for it—"

Draco shook his head vehemently. "I'm not going out there—"

"I didn't say you had to come," Hermione said peevishly, crossing the room.

"—in hail like this," Draco finished. It was then that Hermione noticed the first loud smack of hail hitting the greenhouse roof. It bounced violently off the siding and Hermione saw that the hail balls were the size of golden snitches.

She clenched and released her hand. She turned around to see that Draco had shoved the plants away to clear a space on the potting table and was pushing loose soil to the ground with a sweep of his arm. "What are you doing?"

Instead of answering, Draco slipped out of his robe and swung it into the air like a bed sheet, letting it settle across the table. He hoisted himself onto the table, drawing his long legs up from the muddy floor. "Saving my shoes from certain ruin." He pulled at his tie, loosening the knot enough that he suddenly looked unkempt. "I would invite you to join me, but…I think you had plans to dash?"

A sharp pop resounded and Hermione cringed, looking up to see that a hail ball had left a crack in the ceiling. Still, she jerked her chin in the air and glanced once more toward the door. She must have looked like she was going to walk out into the storm, because Draco said, "Don't be stupid," with a roll of his eyes.

Hermione tried to hide her relief and cleared a small space for herself on the table. She pulled herself up awkwardly, situating herself by tugging her skirt down over her knees and holding the hem down with a clenched fist. "I hope it's over soon," she groused. "I'd rather be anywhere but here."

For a brief instant, Hermione thought Draco almost looked hurt, but then he just said, "Yes, you'll be wanting to get back to Weasley."

They sat in silence, but every few minutes Draco would rotate his arm from the shoulder or flex the fingers of his left hand. Once, Hermione even saw the black curve of the Dark Mark peeking from the cuff of his sleeve. The next time he flexed his hand, Hermione said, "Is something wrong?"

"What? No."

"You keep—" Hermione imitated the movement.

"My arm's asleep," he replied shortly. But he tugged self-consciously at his sleeve.

Hermione readjusted herself, the hard wood of the table biting into her ankle. "Does it happen a lot?"

"Does what happen a lot?"

"Does your arm fall asleep a lot?"

"Why do you care?" he snapped, but then, several moments later, said, "Sometimes."

"Maybe Madam Pomfrey has something for it," Hermione suggested.

"I doubt it."

"You could ask. If it happens a lot."

"Thanks, I'll keep that in mind."

"Well, why do you think it happens?"

Draco slammed his palms onto the tabletop and twisted. "Are you kidding me?" His nostrils flared. He jerked up his sleeve, shoving his wrist in her face, the Mark dark and gruesome against the pale skin of his wrist. "This is why. My entire arm feels like a phantom limb more often than not because of this. Is that what you wanted to hear? Is that what you wanted to see?"

"Draco, stop it." Hermione grabbed his arm, the tendons of his wrist tight beneath her fingers. His pulse was hard and erratic. "I didn't mean it that way." Slowly, she released her grip and he sagged tiredly, covering his face with one hand.

"Let's talk about something else," he mumbled. "If that's okay."

"I think that's a good idea."

Draco snorted unhappily. "Except now I can think of nothing else."

Hermione cast around desperately for the right thing to say. "It's not a lover's quarrel," she blurted finally. "Between Ron and I. We're just friends." She felt her face go up in flames. "I think the hail's stopped," she announced suddenly, grabbing her basket of belladonna and practically bounding from the table. "I'll see you back at the castle!"

She left so quickly she didn't see the stricken look on Draco's face.

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