Chapter Twenty-Six

What's so amazing That keeps us star gazing What do we think we might see? – Kermit the Frog, 'The Rainbow Connection'.

**

Friday evening.

At five minutes pass two in the morning, Hermione slipped on her bedroom slippers, followed by Harry's cloak, and crept out of her room.

The teachers had been added to the patrol roster around Hogwarts, just as they had done in Hermione's second year, during the Chamber of Secrets fiasco. Apparently McGonagall herself had volunteered to take the corridors in the vicinity of Gryffindor House.

Hermione sincerely hoped that the Deputy Headmistress would currently be on duty because it would be easier to sneak past her, than it was to get by a young, spry, highly trained Auror. No offence to Minerva McGonagall.

Getting caught sneaking around the castle would be the start of a whole bag of trouble none of them needed, not the Aurors, not the staff and not Hermione. Not to mention the fact that she was also responsible for keeping Harry's precious cloak safe.

It was always startling to realize just how creaky and noisy the various floorboards, doors and hinges were, when you were trying to be as quiet as possible. Maybe Malfoy was right. Maybe she did lack the sneaking gene. Her bedroom slippers muffled her footsteps brilliantly however, and so all Hermione had to do was duck her head around every corner to check where the patrol was.

She counted three Aurors by the time she got to the ground floor and was one corridor away from the Infirmary.

Unfortunately, when she got there, she saw that Professor Snape was standing immediately outside the open doors of the hospital wing. He was staring into the darkness with an expression that was almost challenging. Hermione frowned.

Honestly, suspicious seemed to be the man's natural state of being.

Bugger.

She waited for what seemed like hours, though it must have only been about twenty minutes or so. Her right foot started to cramp up. Even Potion Masters had to go to the bathroom sometimes, right?

Miracles upon miracles, Hagrid appeared at the opposite end of the corridor, a monstrous mass carrying a dimly glowing lantern. He beckoned to Snape, and after an obligatory sneer, the Potions Master deserted his post to speak to the Groundskeeper.

Hermione seized her chance. She sprinted the remaining distance and slipped inside the infirmary. In the muted light of the evening, the infirmary was a long, cavernous room that smelled not unpleasantly of disinfectant. The place was definitely more cheerful in the day time, Hermione decided.

She was not experiencing any of the excitement and nervous tension she felt when she had first snuck out of Gryffindor to meet Draco in the Owlery. The danger was so very close to home now and there was nothing remotely fun about what she was doing.

All the beds were empty save for the one nearest to the windows, which had its curtains drawn around it. There was a pair of black, leather school shoes, thrown haphazardly beneath the bed. She noted that there were no chocolates, flowers or cards adorning the bedside table, as was often the case when Harry was admitted.

Perhaps Slytherins did not make a habit of attempting to speed up a fellow student's healing by force-feeding him or her obscene amounts of candy.

Somehow that was a sad thought.

Checking to see that Snape had not returned, Hermione parted the curtains. Being invisible definitely had its merits.

Just one look, she told herself.

She took off the cloak and draped it over the bedside table. Malfoy was sleeping on his stomach, with one hand beside his face, fingers curled. The right side of his head was smeared with some sort of ointment. He looked awfully young with his features so completely relaxed.

There was a cut just above his eyebrow, already magically sealed. The injured area was red and puffy looking, but otherwise, he seemed to be in one piece. He was wearing infirmary-issue pajamas, but the top was so badly buttoned that Hermione suspected he had insisted on putting it on himself. She wondered if it was because he hadn't wanted anyone to ask questions about the tattoo on his back.

There was one pillow on the bed, which he had squashed into ball to make it more substantial. The light sheet that was also standard issue, had been tossed to the floor. His feet were bare and his right foot was hanging off the edge of the bed.

He had really attractive feet.

Ok. She had had her look. But now that she was there, Hermione made up her mind that he was cold.

She made sure that the curtains were once again fully drawn around the bed before she bent down to retrieve the sheet. While she was down there, she picked up his shoes and placed them neatly in a corner. As Hermione went to stand up again, she was startled when the hand that had been lying placidly beside his face, reached up to graze her cheek.

Draco was awake and he was looking at her with the most vulnerable, worried expression. She felt her breath mysteriously lodge inside her chest.

"Couldn't find him anywhere," he said, sounding nearly on the verge of tears. His eyes were half-lidded and his voice slurred. Hermione relaxed slightly when she realised he was extremely disoriented.

"He always comes when I call."

Hermione draped the sheet over him and then, with only a moment's hesitation, reached out to hold his hand. "Who couldn't you find, Draco?"

"Brown and shaggy. Smells like stagnant pond," he smiled ruefully at the memory. "Followed me home from the village one day."

He was talking about some long-lost pet, Hermione realised. The dog must have obviously meant a lot to him.

"I'm sorry," she said. And she was, because she knew she was currently glimpsing something intensely private and he was going to hate himself later for telling her.

"Head feels like shite," he whispered, licking his lips. He rolled over with a loud groan and Hermione resisted the urge to shush him. Snape only needed to stick a head into the room to notice her presence.

"Would you like a glass of water?" she asked.

He was squinting at her. Hermione surmised he was probably starting to realize who and where they were.

"Granger?"

"Yes, it's Hermione. I've snuck out of dorm to see you." She added the last part in case he decided to be loud again.

"Hermione…"

She had to grin. He had trouble saying her name and only managed it on his third attempt. That was only marginally worse than poor Krum, though.

"I didn't mean to wake you."

"Knew you'd come back," he nodded. He was smiling like a four year old who'd just been informed that Santa Clause the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny did indeed exist and were throwing a massive party down the street.

"The other one. Granger. She doesn't like me very much. Good thing I'm a light sleeper. Come here to finish me off if she could, the harpy."

Hermione's eyes widened at that. The man was obviously drugged up to his eyeballs. His concussion must have been more serious than Ron had described.

The hand holding was rather nice, though. He had a warm, dry grip, which was unusual for boys his age. From experience, they tended to be perpetually sweaty palmed.

"I came to see how you're doing."

"Awrrible," he informed. She thought maybe he had meant to say 'awful' at first, but then changed his mind.

"That was a big risk you took, helping that boy today. Everyone's talking about it."

He smirked at her with his eyes closed. It was incredibly endearing. "Tadpole's awright. Needs some brains to go with that big brass set he's got, but he's a good sort."

She laughed, and then winced at the noise. "You might like to know that Dodders has been singing your praises all day."

He waved a hand dismissively, and the movement nearly caused him to fall off the bed. Hermione took hold of his shoulders and told him to sit still.

"Bah! Fat lot of good that does me. Someone hates me enough to set me up. The list could be quite long, you know… Lotsa people onnit. Hermione, you listening?"

"I'm listening." She sat on the edge of the bed to emphasize this.

"My head's sore. I've ruined my face and they're telling me you weren't even there to see any of it," he continued.

Hermione filed away that small, but priceless confession. She straightened his collar, which was tucked inside his shirt. "In any case, the two of you survived, and I assure you, your good looks are still very much intact."

"Pfft," he said, blowing his fringe off his forehead. "Granger thinks I'm disgusting. Won't speak to me, won't touch me. Won't fuck me when we're sober. Married me though. That's something, innit?"

Her eyes widened. The man was on a roll. "I suppose."

Malfoy seemed to be having trouble keeping his eyes focused on her. He frowned, squinted, blew a raspberry and then told her to stop multiplying into two, because it was making him dizzy.

"Oww," he groaned.

She took pity on him. "Hush. Close your eyes."

Nothing, not even a hospital visit was simple, when Draco was concerned. It didn't seem right that no one cared, that someone somewhere wasn't worried about how he was doing and wasn't in the process of working out how to sneak outside of curfew to see him.

"'Kay," he said, sounding petulant. "Will you stay?"

"Yes."

"Get into bed with me?"

"I can't."

"Yes, you can. There's space, see?"

She didn't know what he expected her to 'see'. He didn't so much as budge an inch over, on the bed.

Hermione chalked it down to temporary insanity, when she took her shoes off and climbed onto the bed. There was no room, and she had to gently shove Malfoy to the left because it was obvious he was in no state to do that himself. He smelled strongly of camphor and salve, which she didn't like. It overpowered his usual, natural scent.

"This is crazy. If I get caught, I'm taking you down with me," she whispered, after the sheet was evenly laid over the both of them.

Malfoy continued smirking. "'Kay," he said, again, before resting his chin on the top of her head. "We should do this more often."

He made it sound as if they were sharing tea and crumpets.

Hermione lay in the crook of his arm, her head on his chest, one leg hooked over his, and was alarmed to realize that she could have happily fallen asleep right then and there, given the chance.

The key to beating insomnia was apparently to lie in extremely cramped conditions with a dosed-up Draco Malfoy, who happened to smell like Vicks Vapor Rub multiplied by ten.

"Tell the harpy I'm sorry about trying to stick her in the Bath. You'll do that, won't you, Hermione? Tell her?" He nuzzled her neck.

"The harpy recalls the apology," was all Hermione would say. The memory was still a bit too fresh in her mind. She wasn't sure she was ready to deal with a sober, non-drugged, Draco Malfoy.

"I wouldn't have hurt her," he insisted, sounding very serious now.

Hermione tilted her head up to look at him, and he took this opportunity to brush his lips over the bridge of her nose. That simple contact made her head spin. He was going cross eyed looking at her freckles. It was much too dark to see what his chameleon-like eyes were up to, but she was willing to bet they were widely dilated.

"You were trying to hurt her. She's not stupid," Hermione eventually managed to say.

She is mental though, because she's apparently referring to herself in the third person now…

"Girl's too brainy for her own good. Think less. Sex more," Draco declared, in a sagely manner. "I ought to get that printed on a t-shirt."

"You do that." Hermione was prodding at his head with her fingers, to see how close he had come to getting his annoying brain, permanently damaged.

"That feels good." His fingers were stroking at the soft skin at her hip. She could imagine the dragon tattoo straining and stretching across her skin, eager to come into contact with his hand.

Odd how that sensation didn't feel strange any more. Just new.

"You're wearing that shirt again," he noted, looking at her chest with a bleary expression. He looked like Harry on the mornings when he discovered he had lost his glasses. "The one with the wee frog. Kevin."

"Kermit," she corrected, smiling into his neck. She hadn't even realised she was wearing the same t-shirt.

"So. Are you going to tell me what this rainbow connection thing is all about? Or is that top secret Muggle business that my poor, magical brain can't possible comprehend?" There was just enough annoyance in his voice to remind Hermione that underneath the balms, the sleeping draught, the hospital pajamas and the hand holding, lurked the same Draco.

She hesitated, sensing where the conversation was going. "Well, it's this song he sings."

"Splendid. Sing it for me."

"No, Malfoy. I'm not even supposed to be here, remember?"

He became quiet. Incredibly, Hermione suspected he might actually be upset.

Good lord.

She rolled her eyes and relented. Never let it be said that Hermione Grange was not a soft touch. "Will you go to sleep if I sing it for you?

His other hand came about to stroke her cheek clumsily, which, she supposed, was his way of saying, 'yes, thanks, that would be very nice.'

She wasn't going to chance looking at him now. There would be too much intensity and unguarded emotion on his face. She felt like a third party intruding on some private moment, yet again.

"Fine."

She sang the song, off-key, because she wasn't very good at it, and in a half-whisper. But he listened anyway and there were no more complaints.

Hermione thought he must have been nearly asleep by the time she got to the last verse, but he wasn't. He slipped his hand under the hem of her t-shirt, placed his palm over the curve of her belly to lightly squeeze for a moment, slid it up her rib cage and then cupped her left breast.

He then pressed his nose against her cheek and inhaled deeply, his thumb absently rubbing over her nipple, under her shirt. The whole act was done completely naturally, as if he had done it to her a hundred times before. There was no calculation, just a simple need, appeased.

Her entire body turned to liquid. She was sure she had melted into a sensitized, relaxed puddle of flesh, right there on Malfoy's hospital bed.

Hermione faltered on the chorus. He was breathing evenly against her neck now. All signs pointed to a deep, healing sleep. She couldn't recall ever feeling more comfortable, or more safe, for that matter. And that was saying something.

Falling asleep with the person you cared about was fine, wherever the bloody hell you came from and whatever the hell else was going on in the world.

It was perfectly fine. It had to be.

She closed her eyes. Just for a minute, she told herself. Just until I'm sure he's asleep.

**

The sun wasn't quite up yet when Hermione opened her eyes. It took an enormous amount of effort to shake the sleep off. She was normally out of bed and dressed in ten minutes, but on this occasion, she felt like a newly awakened Rip Van Winkle.

Malfoy was wrapped around her like cling-film, his lanky frame filled out every spare bit of space on the bed. Where there wasn't space, he simply draped the limb in question, over her. The sheet was once again on the floor. No surprises there. Hermione realised she had been sleeping on his right arm for most of the night and shifted so that she could free it for him.

He was sleeping like the dead.

It wasn't until she was about to gingerly slide her legs off the mattress and sit up, did she notice Pansy Parkinson standing at the foot of the bed, a posy of daffodils in her hand. It was still mostly dark in the infirmary.

"Morning," the Slytherin girl said, coolly.

Hermione pushed her hair out of her face and stood up. Her hair tie had gone missing. "Pansy."

"I came to see if he's any better. I might have spared myself the effort if I knew he was in such good hands," she informed tartly. Her jaw was tense and Hermione noticed that she was gripping the flowers a little too tightly.

Well. This was just peachy. Harry was going to boil his cloak to sterilize it when he found out. "I suppose I should explain," Hermione began, rather lamely.

There was only one obvious explanation for what Pansy was seeing, and there was not going to be any way to sugar coat it. She wasn't about to insult the girl's intelligence with false denials.

"No need." Pansy smiled. Ron called this particular type of smile 'mouth-stretching', because that was what it was. There was nothing remotely friendly about it. "I guessed he had a new plaything lately, but I didn't think it was going to be you."

Plaything? Hermione supposed that label would have to suffice. Better plaything than the 'love interest'. They'd crucify him for the latter.

"Don't worry," Pansy sniffed, "I won't tell anyone. He's got enough to be dealing with besides safe-guarding his…reputation."

Hermione folded her arms. It occurred to her that they were both whispering so as to not to wake Draco. Pansy's feelings for Draco were not exactly a secret, but Hermione was starting to realize just how far those feelings went.

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

Pansy sneered at her. "Don't be coy. It doesn't suit you. You know all about the importance of reputation. Yours isn't going to escape intact if this gets out, you know."

"I'm not going to ask you to do a God-damned thing, Parkinson," Hermione countered. "If you choose not to tell anyone, for Draco's sake, I'll be glad for it. But you don't have to do me any favours."

"Do me a favour then," Pansy said, thrusting the flowers into Hermione's hand. "Give those to him. Seems like he's quite willing to take whatever you have to offer. Make sure you leave before Madam Pomfrey makes her six o'clock rounds."

And with that, Pansy gave the sleeping Draco once last look, before walking out of the infirmary.