If you were redirected to this after clicking on an "Alert" link, click back to chapter 24; you probably haven't read it.

There's a line break in the middle of the chapter that just refused to cooperate. -' I hope it'll show up.

Chapter 25

Counter Clockwise

27th November, 1998

He had been avoiding her.

At first she hadn't been sure. They didn't have that many lessons together. Maybe he just didn't have enough homework to justify going to the library. Maybe he'd got bored. But the day he walked into Potions and sat down right at the front of the class, in the seat that was farthest away from her, she knew. He never looked at her, never spoke to her, never stood within a three-feet radius of her, and hadn't since their little game of questions – since her first nightmare, maybe a week previously. And she just couldn't figure out what had happened.

She had thought... She had believed Malfoy was changed. Everyone had been changed by the war. Most came out of it worse for the wear – tired, bitter, saddened. Malfoy was all of those, and yet, compared to what he had been before – arrogant, presumptuous, cold –, he seemed... better. He occasionally smiled. He talked to her like a civilised person. He had stopped calling her, or anyone, a Mudblood.

Now he had just stopped talking to her, period.

So that day, when she entered the Potions classroom, she froze in shock. Because Malfoy was there. He was facing away from her, but there was no mistaking the smooth blond hair and too-skinny figure. He was standing, looking at Professor Bilmerk. And he was standing at her desk. The one he hadn't been to since their almost-fight. Hell, she had barely seen him since that day, let alone talked to him. And yet here he was. Like nothing had happened. Like he had been there every Potions class for the past week.

He turned to face her when he heard her approach, and something passed over his face as she wordlessly placed her bag on the desk next to his. Fear? No, that wasn't it. It wasn't even hesitation. Uneasiness?

"Hey," he said quietly, his eyes assessing.

She was quiet as she opened her bag, drew out the essay that was due, and pretended to be engrossed in reading the instructions for the day's potion. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He looked stricken.

"Granger," he said. "Are you all right?"

Guilt, she realised. That was what she'd been trying to pinpoint. Not fear, but guilt. Draco Malfoy, feeling guilty. Who would have guessed?

She sat down, looking straight ahead at the board, her neck stiff. And still didn't reply.

"Okay," Malfoy said "I suppose you aren't. Look, Granger – we need to talk."

"I don't see why."

"Don't be childish," he snapped. "You know perfectly well why." He seemed on the verge of adding something, but then he turned and half-strode, half-stalked to the cupboards at the other end of the room to gather the ingredients.

Hermione sighed. Of course she knew why he wanted to talk. They had almost been getting along. They were a far cry from being friends, but she could look at him without feeling angry or annoyed. She could smile at him. She could, sometimes, laugh at his comments. And she could work with him. That was the best part, really. He was an excellent Potions partner. He knew what he was doing but didn't – couldn't, really – order her about. They worked well together, and Hermione couldn't remember the last time she had found that statement to be true for someone else.

They hadn't worked together in weeks. Bilmerk hadn't said anything when they had suddenly stopped being partners. He had looked like... like he had been expecting it. And that, more than anything, was what was pissing her off. Because she had been an idiot. She had believed in Malfoy.

"Look, Granger... I'm sorry."

Her head whipped around and Malfoy leaned back a half-inch, his eyes widening just a fraction, almost dropping the vials and ingredients he held in his arms.

"Oh no you don't," she hissed through clenched teeth. "You've already tried to pull that one on me, Malfoy. It's quite obvious you haven't changed at all. I don't know why you've been avoiding me for the past three weeks, but I'm guessing it has something to do with the fact that we can't stand each other."

His eyes hardened. "I never said I was nice. I never said we were going to become best friends overnight. Hell, I don't even want us to be best friends." He looked down at his desk. "I don't know what I was thinking. But – I suppose I figured you were the one who was most likely to give me a second chance."

This was the new Malfoy, the one she didn't know how to deal with. The one who could, like his old self, annoy her like no-one else, and then seconds later tug at her heartstrings with such skill he had to be doing it on purpose.

"Malfoy," she started, watching him fill the cauldron with water and light the fire. "I don't think –"

"I'm sorry," he said, not lifting his eyes from the cauldron. "I wasn't avoiding you. I thought you wanted me to avoid you. That day... you ran away..."

"Yes," she said. "I lost it. You can hardly hold it against me."

"I don't," he said. "But I thought I should stay away."

"Then why did you come back?"

"Because you were sending me death glares that told me I wasn't doing the right thing."

She smiled. "Malfoy –"

"Why do you always call me that?" he asked, straightening and turning to – glare at her.

She stared. "Why do – what?"

"Malfoy," he clarified. "I mean, I know it's my name. But it's not like I got to choose. And I hate – not my name, exactly. Just the way everyone says it. With a sneer."

"Draco," she said, deliberately putting a sneer into her voice.

He did his almost-smile, the one where his eyes laughed but his mouth hardly moved at all. "I almost like that one better." And then he really smiled. "Hermione."

"Draco," she said back.

"Hermione," he repeated. His gaze softened. "Hermione, I'm sorry."

She felt her face heat up, though maybe it was only because she was so close to the fire. She bent over the cauldron and sprinkled the first ingredients in.

"I know."

"Hermione?" he said again, as a question this time.

"Yeah?" she said cautiously, reaching into the cauldron to stir the beginning of the potion.

"Can I ask you something?"

His tone was suddenly awkward. Hermione stopped stirring and looked up.

"I'm listening."

He looked nervous. He was playing with his wand, rolling it between his fingers, deliberately avoiding her gaze.

"That day... The Room of Requirement, when Crabbe... I – I thought I was going to die. And you..." Suddenly he looked up. "You saved our lives."

His face had lost what little colour it had still held, but his eyes were piercing. Filled with confusion, looking for answers, but dark and piercing.

"Why?"

The question startled her. She had been expecting another apology, maybe, or gratefulness.

"I – I don't know," she said truthfully. "We... We couldn't – it's not like we could have just – just turned our backs and left you to die!"

"I would have done it," he said quietly, still holding her gaze.

She was the first to look away and back at the potion. "I'm not like you, Draco." Then, after a moment of unbearable silence: "It was Harry's idea, not mine. Why are you asking me?"

"You're much easier to talk to."

"Why didn't you want to identify Harry at your house?" she countered.

"As surprised as it may make you feel, Granger, I don't actually enjoy watching my aunt torture people."

She drew in a sharp breath. It had been a while ago, but never long enough, and the memory still stung as hotly as the scars on her arm did when she rubbed what was supposed to be healing cream on them.

Draco realised his faux pas and said, quietly, "Shit. I'm sorry. I didn't think."

"Yeah," she said senselessly, absent-mindedly stirring the potion.

After another awkward silence, he reached out and laced his fingers through hers, briskly stirring the potion for her. "Counter-clockwise, not clockwise!"

Hermione was surprised at how easy it was to slip in and out of the comfort zone with Malfoy – Draco. She suspected it was because of their not-so-comfortable past. Their present-day personalities were compatible, and she sometimes found herself enjoying his company, but even the slightest mention of their past dug a bridge-less gap between them and led to awkwardness. They would go from friendly teasing to heavy silences in less than a minute.

The walk to the library after Potions class was one of those silent moments, in a thoroughly awkward way. Hermione was debating which would be a better conversation topic between Parvati Patil's newest conquest and the ghoul living in Ron's attic when Draco said, out of the blue:

"There's a Quidditch match tomorrow."

"Really?" she said, grateful for a chance to speak, even about something that had never really interested her.

She had been vaguely aware that the Quidditch season was nearing. Ginny, who had been named Captain and was loving every second of it, had spent enough time raving about the hopelessness of some people at try-outs ("I don't know how Harry did it" had been her exact words), and later showing up late at the Great Hall in the evenings because of "practise, you know how it is." Hermione couldn't say she did, but she didn't mind Ginny's frequent absences. If that was what had allowed some colour to return to her friend's cheeks, and if that was what had drawn that laugh out of her just a couple of days ago, then she was a fervent supporter of Quidditch.

"It's Ravenclaw playing," Draco went on, eyeing her. "Against Slytherin."

"Ah," she said.

"Will you be watching?"

She slowed her pace thoughtfully. "I don't think so. It's not like I'm a big Quidditch fan, and if Gryffindor isn't playing... I don't know."

Draco was quiet for a moment, and she wondered what she had said for the awkwardness to return.

"Does Slytherin have a good team, then?" she asked to break the silence.

"Pretty decent, I think. But Ravenclaw has managed to gather some pretty hot players this year, from what I hear. It's going to be a challenge."

She could hear the smile in his voice. "You really do like Quidditch, don't you?" she asked as they reached the library.

"Yeah," he said, pushing the door open. "Do you have homework to do?"

"Not yet."

"Great. Can you do my Transfiguration?" he asked as he set his bag down and pulled back a chair to sit in.

She looked at him incredulously. His expression was completely deadpan, but after a moment or two his eyes sparkled and crinkled up at the corners, though his mouth remained in a thin, flat line.

She hit him on the shoulder. "Quit teasing me, you idiot."

"I'm quite serious," he said, still unsmiling. "Don't I look serious?"

"You're actually laughing inside."

"No, really," he insisted. "I have two feet of Transfiguration due for Monday and what with there being a match this weekend, naturally I won't have time to do it. And if you're not going to the match..." His voice trailed off and he looked pointedly at her.

"Dream on, Draco," she said. "Is it the one about Conjuration?"

He nodded. "First dated occurrences, theory, how long conjured objects can last with examples, give five famous examples of Conjuration gone wrong, conclude."

"I spent hours on that one," she said, shaking her head. "It was awful. So it's a definite no."

He shrugged, not really looking surprised, and leaned back in his chair. A strand of hair fell into his eyes and he pushed it out of the way, looking annoyed.

"Too bad."

"I suppose I could lend you my notes, though," she said. "But you're going to have to do the actual writing. Conjuration is important for the Transfiguration N.E.W.T.s, anyway, and..." She paused and cocked her head at him. "Hey."

"Hey?"

"I never thought – what do you want to do after you pass your N.E.W.T.s?"

He looked at her strangely. "What do you mean?"

"Do you have a career in mind?"

"Well, yes," he said unsmilingly. "I've been thinking what a splendid idea it would be for me to become Minister for Magic. Don't you agree? No-one will hesitate to vote for me."

"I didn't mean that," she said. "I was talking about –"

"What does it matter?" he interrupted her. "Look, Granger, I never thought... Last year, I figured I'd always be a Death Eater, you know? I thought it would define my future. I'd either serve the Dark Lord until I died or spend the rest of my days in Azkaban. I never thought I could..." He trailed off, looking down at his palms awkwardly. "There's no work for Death Eaters," he finished curtly.

"Draco," she said softly, reaching out to cover one of his hand with hers. "You're free, now."

"It doesn't matter," he said, pulling his hand away.

The rejection stung, though she didn't know why.

"Draco –"

"The only reason I came back this year was because my mother asked me to, Granger," he cut in.

"But what will you do if you don't have a job?"

She wondered if her tone really did sound that aghast, and decided it probably did. She couldn't imagine a life without working. Wasn't that why she had come back for her seventh year – to have a decent career, one she was ready for and one she deserved?

"It's not like I need to work to live," Draco said casually. "My family has enough money."

"Even with what the Minister took from you to rebuild Hogwarts?"

He looked at her, and something in his dark eyes made her look away and say:

"Forget it. Here, take these." She handed him her notes on Conjuration, and couldn't resist asking, "Did you even do the Potions essay that was due today?"

He seemed grateful for the change in subject and, his eyes flitting over her notes, he said, "Of course."

"Did you copy it off anyone?"

"No."

"So you like Potions better than Transfiguration?"

"What is this, a Ministry interrogation? I feel like I'm back at the trial."

The words, casually thrown, hit Hermione like a rebuke.

"Oh," she said, her voice suddenly very quiet. "Sorry."

"Salazar," Draco said, sitting up. "Are you going to go all weepy on me?"

"Of course not," she snapped. "Now will you start that essay or what?"

"Or what," Draco said, but he leaned under the table and took a quill out of his bag.

On a fresh piece of parchment, he started organising Hermione's ideas through messy but readable sketches, complete with arrows and crossed-out words. And he was more or less silent for the rest of the hour, occasionally stopping his work to ask her what this sentence was supposed to mean. This was the silent understanding that Hermione had missed. She liked having someone there, even if – maybe especially if – they didn't say anything. There was something about Draco's presence. He seemed to radiate feeling. Not warmth or confidence or anything Hermione particularly liked. It was something... different.

Their free period was over too soon. She hardly heard the bell chime, but Draco scraped his chair back and slipped his start of an essay into his bag. The chime marked the end of their time together. Outside of Potions, their only shared class, the library was the only place they ever saw each other. Before leaving – he always left without a word –, Draco unexpectedly smiled at her and said, quietly:

"You should come tomorrow. To the match, I mean."

He turned to leave, and he had already disappeared behind a row of bookshelves when it hit her. She shot up from her seat, not bothering to gather her things, and followed him, almost running.

"Draco!" she called. "Draco – wait up."

He was a few steps from the door to the library when he stopped and turned to look at her. "Yes?" he said, looking confused.

"Is the reason – are you – how did..." She trailed off, not sure how to say it.

"Granger, I have class right now –"

"So do I," she snapped. "Look – did you make the Quidditch team this year?"

That was when he smiled. It was a genuine smile, one that showed his teeth and reached his eyes.

"Took you long enough to figure it out," he said. "Why did you think I was spending less and less time in the library? Practise takes up a lot of time. And by the way, I'm actually Captain."

"Oh," she said. "What? How?"

"Cursed some poor fifth-year and nicked his badge, obviously," Draco said airily, holding out his hand to her, palm up.

She stared at the glinting silver of the badge.

"I'm joking, Hermione," he said, smirking. "Did you really believe me? Merlin. I got it same as anyone else, in my Hogwarts letter."

"Oh," she said, feeling stupid. "Right."
"If that's all," he said, "I should be going." And once more he turned to leave.

"Just one more thing," she said. "I'll be there tomorrow. And – I'll be rooting for you."

He froze in his tracks but didn't turn back to face her. After a few moments, he said, his voice low:

"Thank you." Then: "Wait, does that mean you won't be able to do my Transfiguration essay?"

She shoved him forward. "Oh, be quiet. Don't you have a class to go to?"

There are still some things to get out of the way to clear the air between them, and I really like that.