Methods of Coping - Part Two

Two days later, Draco stood at the open window on the south facing wall of his flat, holding a glass beaker into the air to catch rainwater.

Technically, there were more efficient ways to gather this particular potion ingredient. Technically, the acidic London rainwater would not be that effective compared to the distilled Norwegian kind you could buy in treated glass bottles from Diagon Alley. Technically, the types of potions that needed rainwater were not really the types of potions he was interested in brewing, but if it made him feel better about letting his gaze linger on the ugly, white pointed Muggle skyscraper that sat near Burbage High three miles south-west, then none of that mattered.

Although for what audience was he even pretending? It didn't really make him feel better. He knew he was acting ridiculously, anxious over the delay in a reply from Granger, but the compulsion to waste his time watching the sky, waiting for her owl, overrode any internal arguments to be rational.

Diagonal curtains of rain hung over distant parts of the city. Low, grey cloud moved south to obscure the skyscraper and the visibility worsened, but Draco held his arm steady, resting his elbow against the frame when his shoulder began to ache, rain drops splashing across his hand.

It was lunch time. Would Scorp be outside playing football and turn up at four with a sheepish grin, covered in mud, or would the teachers force them to shelter inside? Hermione would be eating in her office. She probably had not even noticed the change in weather. Draco had learnt that about her in the last week. That it took a bit longer for her to leave work behind and to start absorbing external stimuli. He knew she was sharp, but neither intelligence nor magic could make up for a split attention. He wondered how much rest she got. He could not remember if she had been like that at school, but probably he would not have noticed either way. Now, occasionally, as an adult, her eyes would drift, stare for just that bit too long at the blank wall, her lips would shape the edges of words that had no part in their conversation. He would have to say or do something startling to actually get her there, whole.

Her half-presence did not frustrate him, as Draco found that he had more than enough patience, especially when the reward of her full attention was so sweet, but the ploys she kept using to get him into school early were just beginning to irk him.

It begun on Friday. He arrived at the Apparition Room fifteen minutes early, confused by her letter asking him in to discuss his son's choice in green ink. Confused, particularly because of how she had left things on Thursday. He had spent all night replaying their conversation, trying to work out what he had said to scare her away, why her eyes looked so glossy by the time she left. But on Friday she greeted him with bright, sincere cheerfulness, spent two seconds telling him the ink had to be black, before asking in great detail about his family's traditions in celebrating the approaching Autumn equinox. And talking seemed to make her even happier, so he obliged. And tried to ignore how she skirted subjects concerning herself once again.

The Firebolt had been the reason behind Monday's letters, but he knew by this point they had exhausted the topic so it was with a nervous excitement that he Apparated in twenty minutes early, sure that it was another excuse. But, bewilderingly, the broom had indeed been what Hermione had wanted to discuss. Still feeling the slight sting of her polite but impersonal rejection of his advice regarding the donation, Draco had put on a good performance. Perhaps too good. He had not even been sure he had been flirting by the end. He now doubted even that she had ever been.

But she had owled him yesterday morning as if nothing was amiss and in the afternoon he had managed to steer the conversation quickly away from his son's uniform, having realised the game she was playing lasted only as long as he let it. But it was frustrating that it had to exist at all. Why couldn't she simply ask to see him, just because she wanted to?

Draco almost brought his hand back inside, more frustrated with himself than he ever had been with Granger. He had to stop thinking like that. Out of the two possibilities, it was more than likely that she did have a problem with Scorpius, and was not at all flirting with him.

However, no matter how confused Draco was, he was perfectly capable of seeing that idea for what it was. A lie. No one could ever have a problem with Scorpius. And besides, if her mind was half occupied with inevitably more important things, then why was she wasting her time like this? If she had no interest in him personally, then why was her body language telling him something different? Was it that she did not want to admit to herself that she was attracted to someone like him?

And wasn't that a jump in the other direction? It was ridiculous to even fantasise that Granger was interested in him. What was he even doing? Fixating on something out of reach, getting a freezing cold, wet hand for nothing. He could not even blame it on boredom. Draco knew boredom. Sixteen or more waking hours per day in a cell for ten years had ensured that excuse was forever void. Besides, boredom would not explain his reaction to any owl-sized bird appearing from the clouds. A slight clench of his stomach, a hitch of anticipation in his chest that was nearly always too hasty, followed by a deep, brief disappointment that was crushed by immediate self-flagellation.

No, how could he be bored when he could imagine, in perfect detail, the way Hermione's dress strap had slipped down her shoulder last week as they lay on the grass, the bare slope of her shoulder and neck glowing like smooth, honey-coloured marble in the torchlight. If he had possessed a memory as sharp and as sweet as that in Azkaban, he would have been entertained for weeks.

But the memory could be so much better. If only he had reached out to pull the strap back up, let his hand linger on her back, to absorb the warmth he had felt only hints of on his side before he stupidly moved away when she asked about Zabini. When she leant her body into his, when he realised she was cold, he should have kissed her. Then they would not still be playing this game. Next chance he got, he would take it.

"Shut the fuck up," Draco said to the air, as if it would convince anyone who had heard that thought that he had not meant it. "I'm such a-"

He hit his head against the side of window frame, feeling suddenly exhausted, but though he wanted to shut his eyes he did not take them from the horizon.

Draco decided that the hours between eight in the morning and four in the afternoon, when Scorp was off at school, were too easily spent slipping in and out of a type of waking sleep. The moment he forgot to be self-aware and grounded, his thoughts would slide instantly from rational to dream-like, subconsciously disturbing parts of him that had lain dormant for years. Like the confidence that meant he could accurately interpret the way a girl leant towards him or touched her wrist while she spoke, the ease with which he could tell when a smile was flirtatious or amused, the way he knew he could get her to want him. That slip had been a perfect example. How many times, pointlessly, painfully, had he run through what he should have done at the party? He was deranged, slipping into madness in the way of the Blacks, just as Andromeda had warned.

A bird was flying towards him with purpose – something clasped in its claws – then it veered off towards the park.

Draco nearly went inside. But he could not.

Whoever said hope was a good thing was a sadistic fuck.

But that did not stop him from feeling it. His hope was quiet and constant, despite how irrational his fantasies could become. He hoped because he could separate fact from emotion if he tried. As it stood, he was certain Hermione was not doing this with anyone else. He was almost certain she was flirting back with him, sometimes, and here was the incontrovertible proof that there was something between them: No matter how impersonal her letters were, no matter how doggedly she stuck to her bullshit reasons for seeing him, she kept inviting him back.

There was another large bird flying north, buffeting in the wind, a stick in its claws, or – he waited a moment longer - a roll of parchment. Draco watched, stock still, until he was sure, and then with a triumphant shout the soaring, crashing cycle of his thoughts was broken. He moved out of the rain, set down the beaker on the table, cast a Drying Charm on his sleeve and began to pace, glancing every now and then at the window.

Finally, Callisto swept inside and Draco was showered with spray as she flapped her wings across the living room, coming to land on the arm of the sofa.

"Well done, well done, you beautiful, beautiful creature," he said, smiling and wiping the water off his face with his sleeve. "Thank you, and I'm sorry about the rain." He cast the same Drying Charm over the bird and she ruffled her feathers up and hopped to the book case, leaving a rolled sheet of parchment on the cushions.

Wednesday, 7 September

Dear Mr. Malfoy,

I stand by my argument that potions is no more than a glorified type of cooking. A potions master is a chef unusually preoccupied with the preparation and condition of their exotic ingredients. I'm sorry if the truth hurts. It shouldn't. Enjoying a beautifully crafted meal can take you on the path to true happiness far more effectively than any potion.

There is a matter that I do want to talk to you about in person. I know you are very busy with brewing, but would you be free to meet me in the school Apparition Room at three-thirty this afternoon?

Cordially yours,

Headmistress Granger

She wanted to see him, she had not even bothered with an excuse this time, and she had given then half an hour. Draco laughed out loud and held out a finger for Callisto to rub the underside of her beak against.

"You bought Sccorpius a silver cauldron?" Hermione asked caustically. "He's in first year, not seventh. The list said pewter."

Hearing those words was so much worse than reading them. Draco pretended to smooth down the front of his robes while he sucked up the disappointment. He forced a smile and turned to face her. Hermione was sitting on the edge of a low, cushioned sofa that ran along the side of the room, wearing a red buttoned-up cardigan and a smirk.

He relaxed, his smile growing more sincere with relief. So today the 'reason' was a joke. "Only the best for my son," he said, managing to temper his expression into a smirk of his own.

Hermione rolled her eyes, though it did look like she was struggling not to smile.

He nodded at the sofa. "What's this for?"

"I had it put in at lunch – I thought if pupils or their parents were waiting they'd want somewhere comfortable to sit." She ran her hand across the arm rest. "I mean, not that there are any that Apparate other than you and Scorp. The room just looked so empty before."

"So I take it that because I'm half an hour early-" he raised his eyebrows and Hermione glanced sideways at him as he passed her on his way to sit down, right in the centre. "You want me to wait here." He stretched out his arms across the back and crossed his ankles in front of him, trying to appear relaxed. "With you."

Hermione laughed, but her eyes glanced away and it seemed forced, as if to cover up a lack of answer rather than because she found him funny. Though hopefully it was just because she was thinking about something else.

There was about half a foot between them, and although Hermione sat back, her body was held slightly forward, not fully relaxing against the cushions. Draco hoped it was not because of his arm stretched out over the cushion. It was too late to draw it to his lap without it being a big deal. He watched her profile intently, trying to gauge her mood. Happy to see him, but tense and distracted. He decided to let her lead the conversation.

"The silver cauldron," Hermione said after a few moments of silence. She looked round at him with an awkward movement of her neck and Draco smoothed away his disappointment just in time. "None of the other children had a silver cauldron. It isn't necessary. Scorp is already miles ahead in that class, I even saw him giving out jars of homemade toothpaste to his friends that he'd supposedly made all by himself."

"It is excellent toothpaste," Draco said and gave her his most winning smile.

He received a bemused look in return. "I don't doubt that. I asked to see it. It's an excellent-" she smirked, "- recipe, is it yours?"

"Merlin, you're so pleased with yourself for that one, aren't you?"

Hermione laughed, and it was a real laugh this time, her eyes lighting up on his words as if in suprise before they creased in laughter, lines fanning across her cheeks. It was a testament to Draco's self control that the achievement did not make him smile widely. She looked beautiful.

I'm not!" she exclaimed. He raised his eyebrows. "I'm not that pleased. I'm sorry, Malfoy. I'm sorry. Did I go too far this time?"

"Comparing my noble profession to Muggle food preparation? Just maybe. And yes, it is one of mine. I'd like you to find a chef who could heal your teeth rather than rot them."

Hermione sighed dramatically. "That's the dream, isn't it? Guilt-free chocolate cake." She shifted back into the sofa and Draco tried to relax his outstretched arm. He could drop his fingers down to touch the nape of her neck if he wanted to. The thought made his hand feel strange, as if it were not his. "The last enemy that shall be destroyed is sugar," she intoned.

Draco laughed, though he was not quite sure what she was quoting. "No need to go that far. Just use my toothpaste."

"Thanks, but I'm all right," she said with a smile, which fell as soon as she realised what she had implied. "Oh no, it's not because I don't believe you. I'm sure it's great, I know it is, it's just-" She gave a curiously nervous laugh and looked away.

"What do you use then? A spell?" he asked, internally wincing. Why the hell had he just asked her that? Though at least this topic was better than Scorp's cauldron.

"What, then?" Draco asked when Hermione just shook her head in reply.

She turned back, her brown eyes wide. "Well, don't laugh. Promise?"

"Of course."

She paused, biting into her lip. "Colgate."

"Col-gate," Draco repeated slowly. "Is that from Claric's? He sold my mother a bad vial of rose pollen once so I've never been in."

Hermione gave that nervous laugh again. "No. No, it's from Boots. It's um-" She trailed off so Draco nodded encouragingly. "It's a Muggle toothpaste."

Draco was silent. He could not even fake a laugh even if he had wanted to.

"Well, don't look like that!" Hermione said. "You look like I've just admitted a dirty secret!"

"But – but Muggle toothpaste?" he asked, incredulous. "Are you joking?"

"No! No, I've tried wizard toothpaste, but the taste - It's just so herbal."

"Herbal?"

She looked annoyed. "Taste is very important."

"And mine tastes excellent. You should try it." He had just brushed his teeth before he came out. He toyed with the idea of telling her, but he could not imagine pulling it off.

Luckily, Hermione was speaking again and the moment was left behind. "Don't tell me you don't use Muggle products. I didn't see many apothecaries on your road when I came to visit."

"Well, yes, maybe some basics, but the potions required to heal and regrow teeth are a whole new form of torture. The pain is just- let's just say it makes taking Skele-gro feel like having a massage."

Hermione was silent for a moment while she gazed at him. He knew what was coming before the word was off her lips. "Azkaban?"

He nodded reluctantly. What a mood killer.

"I thought there were healers on site now?" she questioned.

"They have different priorities." He grinned, trying to brush it off. "Anyway, I needed something to keep me going in there. I would have these incredibly graphic dreams about peppermint mouthwash."

Hermione smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. She parted her lips, but before she could ask anything else about it, he said, "Muggle toothpaste, not worth the risk."

There was a small frown between her brows. Draco held her gaze, hoping she did not challenge him. It was obvious who really kept him going in there, he did not need mentioning.

"I've never had a single filling," she said instead.

Draco breathed in and out and smiled. Her kindness not to push it was incredible. "What's a filling?" he asked.

Hermione seemed to assess him. "You wouldn't be smiling if you knew, and let's keep it that way." He had obviously failed her test. "Ignorance is bliss. Malfoy, my parents are dentists. I know how to care for my teeth."

"Dentists?"

"Dentists are like Healers, but just for teeth."

"How –" Draco struggled to find a word. "Curious."

Hermione laughed. "It's not, but thanks."

He was silent for a moment. Here was an way in to talk about something more personal than bloody dental care, a topic that had lasted far too long. "Have you spoken to them since-"

"Last week?" she finished. Draco nodded once. Hermione turned her face away, up in the direction of a childish landscape on the wall. The grass was such a lurid shade of green that Draco could barely look at it for five seconds, so unless Hermione had terrible taste in art she was absolutely avoiding making eye contact.

"No," she said, after several seconds.

"Do they know about this place?"

Hermione looked back at him quickly. "Yes, of course."

"Do they know you're the Headmistress?"

"I-" She glanced away again, but thankfully not at the painting and did not say anything else.

Draco let it go for the moment. "My mother doesn't know Scorp is here. She thinks he's at Hogwarts."

Hermione nodded slowly. "I can understand that decision. How is she?"

"Finally talking to Andromeda."

"That's a start," she smiled.

"You should tell them," he said. "Tell your parents."

Her expression showed a split second of hurt, like he had betrayed her, before it closed off. Draco did not allow himself to pay attention to the tiny flare of guilt. He had not repaid her charity. He was pushing this. But then again, this was her life, her future. Azkaban, on the other hand, belonged in the past. It did not need to be discussed.

Hermione shook her head minutely. "It wasn't a decision not to. I just haven't – haven't had the chance."

"Then you ought to make it."

He had not meant the suggestion to sound like an order, but it was how she seemed to take it, her head dropping in surprise, her frown growing deeper as she regarded him. "You make the opportunity to tell your mum about Burbage High, then."

"That's completely different."

"Then why mention it in relation to this?" she asked pointedly.

Why had he told her? Because he had anticipated how she would react to him pressing her reluctance to re-connect with her parents? Despite how open she had been in his flat, he had since learnt that it had been a one-off. Since then, she had not even once let him in to talk about something personal to her. If he felt he needed to disarm her before springing a confrontation, was that his fault? But how could he say that?

Hermione leant back from him. She knew what he had done, it was in her eyes. She clearly thought he had passed a boundary, used tactics that were not in her code of fair play. But he wanted to tell her it was not that simple. She was being impossible to get through to any other way.

"Listen, I'm not here to talk to you about my parents," she said, her eyes narrowing slightly. "I don't need your advice -"

Draco flinched on that word, need. It hit exactly the wrong spot. He drew back his arms, folding them to his chest. He felt the nervous, frustrated energy that had pervaded his week rising up, desperate to find a release, finding it in his voice as he answered. "Well, what exactly am I here for then, Granger?" He took a deep breath, struggling to get himself back under control. "Oh, yes, I forgot, you're here to lecture me about my son's cauldron. Fine. Silver is an excellent metal for a starter cauldron. It provides a steady base for most brewing, adds a clarity to the potion you can't achieve with pewter, has more stability in bearing extreme temperature jumps-"

"Malfoy – " Hermione interrupted and then took a deep breath, rolling her eyes to gaze at the ceiling. She shut them for a moment. Her hands twitched upwards as if she wanted to touch her face, but she managed to control the impulse at the last moment. "It specifically states on the equipment list that pewter -"

Draco could have laughed, her reply was absurd. "Are you joking? I'm not here because of my son's bloody cauldron."

Hermione rolled her head forward off the cushions, though she did not look at him. "Maybe not," she said. "But he needs a pewter cauldron, regardless."

Draco's temper finally broke. He shifted forward in his seat, twisting back to look at her. "And he needs to try out on a school broom tomorrow, and he needs to eat his sandwiches, and he can't ask me for homework help because that would be unfair on the Muggleborns, but he can ask me to wash his gym kit, and to encourage him to change whatever else he's doing wrong. What else can you think of? What will it be tomorrow?"

Hermione's hand was on his arm by the end. "Malfoy, I didn't mean - you know I don't think that Scorp is a bad student?"

"Why shouldn't I?" he demanded. Of course he knew she did not think that, but it was a necessary manipulation to get her to shut up about the fucking cauldron. A harsh tactic, but he was fed up. Fed up of his awful habit of waiting by the window for an invitation, fed up of the ridiculous feeling that had crept up on him since school started, that need for something more. That feeling that she all too obviously did not share.

"Or is it that you think I'm a bad parent?" he added, but as soon as the words were out, Hermione's eyes widened, her fingers squeezed a painful jolt into his skin and he wanted to claw the words back down his throat. He stood up abruptly, her hand pulled on his arm but he wrenched it free, feeling on the back foot more than ever.

He had not meant it to be an admission, just a provocation, but it was too late and he had just spoken out loud what they both knew was true, but were conveniently ignoring for the sake of her weird, confusing game.

"Malfoy, I'm sorry, of course I shouldn't have presumed - please don't think I think you're a bad father. That couldn't be further from the truth." By the sounds of her voice she had stood up too, but Draco could not look back.

"Forget it," he said, deadly quiet.

"No, I'm sorry, I can be such a bitch. You're so – you seem so together, I forgot about everything else –

He span back around. "What do you mean, everything else?"

"Well, you know, how you were – last month."

Draco felt the floor drop away as she said it. He turned away. He could not let her see his face, he felt completely unable to control his expression. Of course she had been thinking about that. It was why she kept getting him here, not because she fancied him. It was why she was not opening up to him. Because they were not equals and she did not need to. He felt ridiculous. As idiotic as how he had felt after being tricked into working for Zabini. But this hurt so much more. Their letters and meetings were not a game for Hermione. They were not playing at anything - it was because she wanted to keep an eye on him. Worried for the boy who went to a relative stranger for help when he was in trouble instead of his father, the man who was found wandering around Diagon Alley off his face on drugs, for whom she nearly had to do an intervention over because he had not left his bed for a week.

"I'm sorry," Hermione said from behind him.

Draco shook his head and turned back just to see her hands settle back to her side where she stood in the middle of the room. What had she been doing? Wringing them together? Fiddling with her hair? Reaching out to him?

"I'm sorry," she repeated. "I'm just – I want - " but she stopped to bite her lip and did not clarify, 'just' what she wanted. Draco knew what he wanted, exactly what he wanted. He wanted to take back the last few minutes with so much fervour he would actually kill to get his hands on a Time-Turner. To say something funny and distracting about cauldrons instead. To provoke her into teasing him about overcompensating with Scorp, for buying him expensive equipment with Zabini's money and for acting like it meant they were rich again.

He wanted to draw her attention away from what a fuck-up he was, not point it out, so she would not be thinking about all those terrible things when she talked to him from now on, skirting around subjects and watching her tongue.

And he wanted more than anything take those twisting hands of hers in his own and breath in the skin on her wrists, and to feel her hands on his arms because she wanted to touch his skin, not to show her pity. To stop her biting her lip with worry because he was too busy kissing it.

But he would never know how she felt now. Draco could not forget what he had just learnt. "I need to go," he said quietly.

"Malfoy – Draco, please don't go, I don't want you to," she pleaded with him.

He turned back around to face her, gathering himself, humiliation stopping him from looking directly at her face. "I think I should. This - " he gestured between them, "is inappropriate. I'm fine. I'm fine. You don't need to keep doing this."

Hermione stepped towards him, shaking her head. "What do you mean, doing what?"

"Getting me here. I don't need you to do it. I'm fine. You can stop worrying now."

"What? I don't understand - Malfoy, I just told you I forgot about all of that. I haven't been getting you here because I've been worried, weren't you listening?"

"I heard you," he snapped, finally meeting her eyes. "I'm fine, better than ever, Scorp is fine, his cauldron is better than fine, you can leave us the fuck alone."

Hermione's face twisted in anger. "Are you deaf? Are you so deaf you can't even listen to yourself? Is this a pride thing? Are you insulted because I don't want to talk about my parents? Well listen to this, Malfoy: I. Just. Don't. Want. To. Talk. About. Them.

"I'm at work, I'm stressed, I'm exhausted, two teachers have handed in their notices today, I have a cracking headache, half an hour ago a child accidentally broke the window in my office because I told her she needed to change her shitty attitude. I don't have to talk about my parents just because you think you know what's best for me. Sorry for just wanting to enjoy myself in your company!"

Draco gaped as Hermione took a step towards him, flinging her arms through the air. "Or is this about me not wanting your advice about the donation on Monday? Well, I'm sorry about that, it's nothing personal."

"The donation?" he spluttered, latching on to it out of shock, as his brain attempted to process what she was saying, particularly that crucial part about enjoying his company. "Why the hell are you bringing that up? I don't give a shit about whether or not you wanted to take my advice. I only wrote that because I thought I could help, not because I have to be involved. Believe me, I know I'm the last person who should be giving political advice given who I am, and what I've done - "

"Oh god, here you go again, bringing up the past. Do you want to talk about it now? Is this a convenient time to address our history? Not when we're sitting here, talking like adults, but when you think you can use it as a weapon or a shield?"

Draco laughed, the sound strangling his vocal cords. She was going too far, way too far. "How dare you. I don't bring up the past as a weapon."

"Yes you do. Keeping me back from you because I couldn't possibly begin to understand your pain."

He flinched, speechless for a moment. "You have no idea what you're talking about. How can you even say that? Azkaban was - "

Hermione's eyes widened for a fraction of a second before she was shaking her head. "Oh, I'm not talking about Azkaban or Hogwarts, I'm talking about just now, last month. Running away from me because I dared to bring up what happened with Scorp and Harry."

Draco felt stricken by her words. He had been certain she was talking about Azkaban, but she held his eyes defiantly and he floundered. That was not fair, Granger should not be able to twist what she said because she realised she had gone too far. She was meant to be a fucking Gryffindor. And he couldn't even accuse her of doing it because it proved her point.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" he spat instead. It was the only thing he could think to say. "You're right about one thing, you are a fucking bitch."

Now she laughed, shrilly, shaking her head and bringing her hands to press against her cheeks. "I'm a bitch? There's something wrong with me? You're completely deluded. Please just tell me what that was, if it wasn't you freaking out the moment your parenting comes up. How can you tell me that you're fine? Talking to you is like walking on eggshells."

"Then tell me what this is." Draco stretched his arms out, waving across the room. He knew he was deflecting her accusation, but he was past caring. "What is that sofa for? Why do you keep on asking me here if talking to me is so difficult? Why do you keep making up excuses if it's not to make sure I'm still okay for Scorp? What do you want?"

She shook her head, opening her mouth to reply, so he kept going, not wanting to hear her answer. "And you think I don't talk about anything personal?" He laughed again, uncaring how mad it sounded. "What about you? Wanting you to talk about your parents isn't anything to do with my pride, can't you see how unfair that is? You aren't telling me anything about yourself. But why should you?" He was groping in the dark, trying to find her weakness, aware of how irrevocably he was probably damaging things, but he could not stop, nor did he want to. "You've just told me how these meetings are just a nice little way to enjoy yourself, a little bit of escapism for you, out of the awful day in the life of being Hermione fucking perfect Granger."

For the first time, Hermione was speechless. Her silence said more about how he must have hit gold than any words could have done. "As long as I can provide the right level of banter of course. Well, sorry I ruined it today, and wasn't the nice little distraction you needed."

He turned away, already picturing the roof of his flat. "You need to leave us the fuck alone. Trust me, we're better off without you." He started to turn, preparing to Apparate, but there was the sound of fast, light footsteps coming towards him. Draco tensed, losing the image of his roof as he felt a hand grabbing at his arm.

"I'll believe that when you stop acting like such a victim," Hermione said, her voice cracking.

Draco looked around. He had a brief vision of her face, her cheeks were red, her eyes bright, before her hand was around the back of his neck and she was pulling him down to smash her lips against his. Draco drew away in surprise, gasping for breath, breathing her breath instead of air, hot on his face. "You-" he gasped, and saw Hermione's eyes again, so close, gazing so directly up into his, holding so much surprise of her own, and hope, need and, almost – terror, that he stopped trying to get away.

She had just kissed him. Her hand began to loosen its hold on his neck, that bottom lip was drawn in between Muggle-white teeth, there was a split second where Draco envisioned her eyes glancing away, at the door or clock as she realised what she had done, so he ducked quickly and kissed her back.

He would show her how much of a victim he was.