A Concerted Effort to Disagree

TWENTY-SIX

disagreements

"We don't have to pretend to hate one another. We just have to act like we don't truly give a damn."

Hermione stared up at Draco in the shadows of King's Cross Station. "I'm a terrible actress."

He snorted. "I know, lioness." Her heart skipped a beat at the nickname he'd given her. "But you know how serious this is. We can't let it get out of our control, or we're both done for. We've still got five months of term to get through, and it will be easier if the entire school doesn't try to hex us while we're studying for our N.E.W.T.s. Just go sit with Weasley and Potter and forget I exist for the train ride." When she opened her mouth to protest, he leaned down and pressed a burning kiss to her lips. She automatically flung her arms around his neck, pulling him closer as his embrace twined around her body, moulding her to him. By the time he had pulled away, she had quite forgotten her train of thought. "I'll make it up to you tonight," he murmured, his voice husky, silver eyes darkened to a medium grey, the blue suddenly more pronounced. Before she could protest, he straightened her cloak, which he had knocked askew, and emerged from the corner of the station, making his way toward Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, his cloak billowing out behind his tall form. She waited until he had safely vanished, and then made her own way there. Her things were already safely stashed in a back compartment of the train.

She had not been without him for nearly the entirety of the Christmas holidays, and it felt strange not having him at her side. It felt strange being in school robes, feeling the gold-and-scarlet tie at her throat. It felt strange to be hiding the necklace he had given her beneath the collar of her shirt. It was strange to feel as though he had left, and taken part of her with him.

She walked casually and unseeingly through the barrier to the platform, and located her things on the train. The compartment she had chosen was still empty. With a sigh, she took a seat next to the window, looking out on the station.

"Hermione!"

She turned, glancing up at the wizard who towered in the doorway of the compartment. She blinked rapidly. The dark hair, the bright green eyes, the glasses... "Harry!" she replied, shocked. It felt as though she hadn't seen him in years. Her life had changed so rapidly since they'd last spoken. Without further ado, she jumped to her feet and hugged him, hard. His breath was expelled in a whoosh of air, and then he started laughing, putting his arms around her too.

"I missed you too," he told her with a chuckle as he closed the door to the compartment behind them. "Though I fully understand why you refused to come to the Burrow for Christmas."

"Oh no," she said weakly, leaning back from his comforting embrace to look up at him. "Ron's told you."

"Don't worry," he said quickly, pushing her gently down on her seat and flopping down on the bench across from her. "I think you did the right thing, you know, just for the record. This might sound selfish, but...as annoying as it is with you two fighting all the time...it would be worse if you were together and then broke things off." He grimaced, adjusting his glasses. "It's hard being the best friend of two people who won't speak to one another."

She sighed in relief. "Thanks for understanding, Harry."

He shrugged, and now his eyes narrowed. "How was your Christmas?"

"Erm...it was...good," she said carefully. "Though skiing isn't really my thing."

There was a moment of silence as his green eyes took in her discomfort. "You're lying," he finally declared. "Why are you lying? Do you really think I'm that blind? Or are you afraid I'm going to disown you?" He sounded genuinely frustrated.

"What are you talking about?" she said nervously, her words too flat to really be a question.

"You didn't stay with your parents." He now looked frustrated, too, jamming a hand through his hair. "I know you didn't. Have I really been that...that...distant? Did you really think I didn't notice?"

She cringed. "Harry, I—I'm sorry—"

"I mean, why else would you turn down Ron, who you've fancied for, oh, I dunno, six years? Not saying I'm unhappy about that, but damn, Hermione, this is—a bizarre alternative—"

"Harry, please, just—just let me explain—"

"Explain what?" he roared, so loudly that she jumped and shrank back in her seat. "It's fine! Just bloody fine! You don't have to explain!" He looked at her, cringing in her seat, and cursed. "I swore I wouldn't get angry about this," he muttered. "I promised Ginny. It's just so hard to comprehend. To understand."

"I—I didn't mean it to happen, really, I didn't!" she cried, her tone escalating toward hysteria. "It just...did! I didn't want to admit it for the longest time, I was so afraid you lot would—would h-hate me..." Her eyes were prickling with tears, and she wiped them away impatiently. "And you do, don't you," she said miserably. "I knew you would. Oh, please, don't tell Ron. He'll never look at me again. I'm so sorry, Harry."

He stared at her. "What're you on about?"

She stared back. "You're...you're angry about...about Dra—Malfoy. Aren't you?"

"No, the hating bit. You lost me at the hating bit."

"Oh, come on!" The hysterical edge was there again. "You can't honestly be okay with this!"

He grimaced. "No, I can't say I am."

"Then what is there to clear up? I'll just find another compartment." She got to her feet, meaning to do it, so furious that he already knew. She would find Ginny and hex her so thoroughly that…that…a dry sob tore from her throat; she couldn't think of anything that would make her feel worse than taking out her anger on the youngest Weasley. It wasn't her fault that Hermione had terrible taste in wizards.

"Oh. You think I'm going to ignore the oblivion out of you for the rest of our lives." He seemed satisfied with this, heaving a sigh of relief.

"Well, yes. Aren't you?" Her sinuses felt flooded. She sniffed, and reached up to tug down her trunk.

"Oh. No, I'm not. I can't pretend to understandwhat you see...in him..." He grimaced, yet again. "It's quite hard to comprehend. You must appreciate that. But you're one of my best friends, Hermione. It would be...horrible...of me to not respect your choices. I know he's changed. Accepted the Order's protection, and all that, I discovered over the holidays. That's something."

She stared at him, her eyes still full of tears. Bugger. What was he saying?

"Just...just be careful," he finished, in a voice that pleaded. "It's still Malfoy."

"Oh," she said, faintly, and sat back down so that she wouldn't collapse.

"And let's not tell Ron yet," he added. "I don't think...it might be a bit much."

"Yes," she agreed, her voice still barely there. "It might."

He glanced at her in concern. "Are you all right?"

As though it were her cue, the world promptly turned black, and the last thing she felt was her head cracking against the train window.

…

"Hermione?" The voice was edgy, worried, scared, a little guilty-sounding. Familiar.

"She's coming round. Back up, Potter." Ah. That was the voice she needed. Cool with an edge of concern, her dragon, hovering beside her. She automatically turned toward the sound of his voice, though she didn't yet open her eyes. Everything felt too fuzzy. "Give her room to breathe."

"Is she all right?" A female voice, a bit high with anxiety, was further away, perhaps at the door of their compartment. "Oh, Harry, I told you not to get angry. She's so worried about it already."

"I didn't mean to." The first voice was back. So that was Harry. It sounded more like him, now. Resentful and guilty and a little relieved. "The absurdity of the situation just hit me. I tried to calm her down, but..."

"What's going on?" No. That was the last person she wanted around at the moment. She felt Draco immediately tense beside her, getting to his feet. "Oh...Malfoy."

"Weasley." His voice was cool but polite. "She's fine. Apparently skiing didn't suit her very well—she must have sustained a mild concussion at some point, and any excitement at all could have set off a bad reaction. I've mended it."

There was a long silence. "And why were you here?" Ron's voice said, as though he were trying hard to stay friendly.

"I was coming to look for her. We have Prefect duties—you, too, Weasley." His voice sounded perfectly irked when he spoke next. "She's in no state. We'll have to let her be. Come on, we need to patrol."

She could practically feel the bewildered look Ron was shooting at Harry before he followed Draco out of the compartment. Their footsteps receded. She groaned as the door clanked shut, and finally opened her eyes. Harry and Ginny were there, looking anxiously at her. Gingerly, she sat up.

"Maybe you shouldn't—" Harry tried, but Hermione only glared at him.

"I'm fine, thanks." She lifted a hand to her head. It was a bit stiff, but there was no evidence of a bump. "I suppose someone did actually mend the damage to my skull?"

Harry looked quite guilty. "Malfoy, yes. He came along quite soon after you fainted."

"It's sweet, him caring," Ginny piped up, but Hermione turned a glare on her, too. The younger girl stared back, her eyes full of apology but her mouth set in a firm line. "He already knew, Hermione, he just needed confirmation," she insisted, and Hermione knew that she was right; after all, as early as the Hogsmeade weekend, Harry had suspected her inclinations.

"Ron's still in the dark?"

"Malfoy covered for you—I'm sure you heard that bit? You have to tell him eventually." There was an accusatory look on Ginny's face now.

"Eventually, yes, but not now." Hermione cringed.

"The longer you wait, the worse it's going to be," the redhead told her warningly. "You'll be lying to him. He'll feel quite abused."

Hermione looked at Harry. Harry shook his head. "I don't think it's such a good idea," he addressed Ginny. "We need to ease him into the idea."

"There is no easing anyone into the idea of Hermione Granger seeing Draco Malfoy," she said crossly. "No, it's better to get it over with right off. He probably won't talk to you for a bit," she added to Hermione. "But he'll come round."

"I somehow doubt that," she murmured, feeling horribly light-headed again.

"He'll manage," Ginny said bracingly. "But you'll have to do it soon. Rip it off like a bandage." Harry shot her a bewildered look. "It's what Muggles say, isn't it?" she said, a bit hopelessly. "Dad's always going on with little sayings like that."

Hermione smiled weakly. "Just to clarify, you three are the only ones who can know." Harry and Ginny both looked at her, frowning. She gestured helplessly. "My best friends are having trouble stomaching this," she pointed out. "Can you imagine how the whole of Hogwarts would react? Our respective houses would disown us. The last thing we need is a spotlight. It's going to be hard enough as it is."

They lapsed into silence. She took it as agreement.

…

She didn't waste any time about it at all.

Once the main course of the meal had ended, she asked Ron to accompany her to her dormitory. She hated the hopeful look that crossed his face when she did so, hated herself for the pain she was about to inflict upon him, hated the worried and knowing looks Harry and Ginny exchanged. He seemed content with the silence as they mounted the stairs to the seventh floor. She was not content. She was completely anxious about what she would say, how she would break this news—the look on his face, the way he would hate her...

He was still her best friend.

"Possibilities," she told the vase of flowers, which swung forward obligingly, and she led Ron into the common room she shared with Draco.

It felt all wrong to have him there, the whole tall, gangly, red-haired length of him; it felt like he was trespassing on something that wasn't hers to share. She sat down on the couch, and he followed suit. It was only then that he caught the look on her face—the anxious, worried look. "Hermione?" he asked, uncertainly, and she could see his hope being shattered in that moment.

Her voice quavered when she spoke. "I suppose there's no easy way to tell you this," she said, quietly.

"Tell me what?"

She already felt short on breath. Dizzy. Horrible. "It's...it's Draco."

She felt him stiffen next to her, his wariness quite apparent. She could tell that he was forcing himself not to make a foul retort when he prodded her forward. "What about him?"

"We've...well." She cleared her throat. "I didn't spend the holidays with my parents." There, one miserable admittance down.

He looked a little nonplussed. "What does that have to do with Malfoy?"

She cringed. "I stayed with him over the holidays. At the Manor. They've...asked for the Order's protection, you know, and received it. He's officially on our side, now."

He was silent. Slowly, she looked sideways at him. He was staring at her, his eyes wide, face drained of all colour. "Please, please don't be furious with me," she said desperately. His hands were clenched into fists so tight that the knuckles were bone-white. "I'm sorry I haven't been honest with you from the beginning. I was so afraid you would hate me."

He continued to stare at her. No, it wasn't going well. He couldn't even speak. His mouth was firmly closed. She wondered if his teeth were digging into his lip. Perhaps she really had to spell it out for him to get a reaction. Maybe she had to say it. "It's just," she continued, desperately, "I've started seeing...him. Draco. Malfoy."

Before she could will any more words past her lips, he was on his feet, his hands still clenched. "How could you?" he demanded, his voice rough. "The prat who called you Mudblood? Who broke Harry's nose? Whose entire family has been part of You-Know-Who's inner circle for years?"

"I know you're angry, I know," she pleaded. "But please give me a chance to explain. Please, Ron."

"I love you!" His voice shook, with rage or pain, she couldn't tell which. "How can...how can you expect me to accept this? With him? You're with him? What is so great about that two-faced ferret? He's a Death Eater!" Perhaps he noticed the stricken look on her face, because he laughed hollowly. "What, don't tell me you didn't know! The Order revealed it all to Harry over Christmas when they were maintaining the wards around Malfoy Manor—"

"He's not any more," she countered angrily. She was on her feet, now, too, struggling to control her desperation. "Oh, for the love of Gryffindor, Ron, he's changed, isn't it obvious? The Order wouldn't let him into their good graces if they hadn't scoured his mind for any trace of continuing allegiance to Voldemort, they would never take that risk—"

"That's fine," he snarled. "That's fine! I'm fine with him changing. I'm fine with you not...not...not wanting to be with me. But why him?" A howl of anguish tore from his lips, his blue eyes squeezing shut as though he couldn't bear to look at her, his hands fisting his hair. "Why him, Hermione? Can you really ignore the bloody Dark Mark on his arm and forget about all the shit he put us through? About the past? Are you trying to hurt me?"

"No!" she cried. "No, no, no, I don't want to hurt you—"

"I deserve it, I bloody well know that, but I never thought you would do it! I never thought you would try to make me feel—like—like—like this. This is—this is horrible—"

"You're pathetic." Her voice shook. "How do you think it felt when you didn't speak to me for months because Crookshanks ate Scabbers? How do you think it felt when you didn't ask me to the Yule Ball, even though I waited and waited for you, even though I had to put off answering Viktor's invitation for weeks because I hoped you might ask? How do you think it felt when you were thrashing around with Lavender when you'd told me we would go to Slughorn's Christmas Party together?" Her eyes were streaming, her throat felt raw. "How do you think that felt? How often have you made me feel like this? Don't I deserve some little bit of happiness? Won't you let me at least have that?"

Perhaps she had stunned him into silence. He wasn't getting a word in edgewise any more.

"When you kissed me, I wanted to feel something. I wanted to feel something so much, don't you understand? I wanted to love you again the way I used to, the way I did for six bloody years, but he—he—I'd already forced myself to move on, don't you see? I thought you would never love me!" She let out a strangled sob. "I wanted to get over it so I could stay friends with you, and he was there, and he's so changed, and it's an absurd choice but I like him, and he cares about me—"

"He cares about you?" His voice was incredulous, hoarse, horrified. "He cares?"

"Why do you think he's been so polite to you and Harry all these months? Why do you think he tried for House unity with me? Why do you think he accepted the Order's protection? Why else would he tell you today that I'd sustained a concussion skiing, why do you think he acted so indifferent? He was trying to protect me, because he knows how much you matter to me, and he knows how much it will hurt me if you—if you—" She couldn't finish the sentence; another sob choked her, and she broke down completely.

It was thus that another entity stepped through the portrait-hole, his silver eyes flicking back and forth between the two, Hermione blind through her tears, Ron stiff and silent, hurt and furious. He immediately turned on Draco, his hand halfway to his wand before he restrained himself.

"Ah," Draco said into the silence, punctured only by Hermione's sobs. "I see she's told you."

"What the bloody hell are you playing at, Malfoy—"

"Don't," he interrupted coldly. "Don't hurt her more than you already have. What were you playing at, Weasley? She was your best friend for six years, and you couldn't summon the courage to act on your feelings for her? I thought Gryffindors were supposed to be brave."

"Please—don't—" Hermione's voice barely broke through the cries racking her. "Don't fight—leave, Draco—please—let me sort this out—"

"How can you sort this out, Hermione?" Ron growled. "This is a bloody mess. All you two do is disagree, all you've ever done is disagree! You can't be seeing him and be friends with me and Harry—"
"Potter has accepted her choice," Draco interrupted smoothly, his voice still cool. "So has your sister. They've both seen this coming for months. Have you been so blind?"

"You told me it was all a ruse," Ron snarled back at him. "In October, after Hogsmeade, you said it was just a game."

"I told myself it was!" Hermione's voice was an eruption of raw, shrill hysteria. "I was certain it was all just—just a stupid way to mess with Pansy and Blaise—but I can't control what I feel, Ron. If I could—" A fresh wave of tears overcame her. "I'm so sorry," she pleaded with him. "Please, please forgive me for keeping this from you. Please understand—I didn't do it to hurt you—I just—"

"You know what your problem is, Hermione?" Ron interrupted, his voice hard. "You have this thing for the underdog. You find the most miserable creatures in the world and try to help them, and it doesn't always work, some people can't be helped—"

"You weren't complaining when it was you I was helping!" she cried. "And house-elves and Crookshanks are not miserable!" The cat leapt into her arms at that moment, turning a disgruntled gaze on Ron. "Everyone deserves a chance, Ron!"

"I can't—no." His fists were clenched again. "You're choosing him."

"Stop making me choose! It doesn't have to be a choice!"

"We'll never be best mates, it's not even possible—"

"I'm not asking for that! Polite acceptance, some sign that you don't—that you don't hate me—"

"Hate you?" The anger had gone out of him; for a moment, he looked quite broken, a defeated man. "I wish I could hate you." Without another look at her or Draco, he strode from the common room, letting the portrait slam behind him.

The silence suffocated them for a moment. Her sobs had subsided into quiet tears, streaming swiftly down her face, forming rivers as she clutched Crookshanks to her chest. "It could have been worse," Draco pointed out.

Her brown eyes turned on him, shining, devastated. "Worse?" she choked out. "How could it be worse? Did you see the look on his face? Do you have any idea how badly I've hurt him?"

A surge of anger crossed his features. "Go to him, then," he snapped harshly. "Tell him you didn't mean any of it. He'll forgive you and take you back with open arms."

She took a step toward him. "That's not—that's not what I meant—I don't love him, Draco—"

"Spare me, Granger." His voice was cold. "I don't need your bloody reassurances." He walked past her, not look at her, and slammed the door leading up to his bedroom.

The tears continued to stream as she buried her face in Crookshanks's fur. Term was beginning to look very dark indeed.

...

Draco couldn't sleep. No, how could he, when her tear-streaked face filled his mind, when the hurt on her features at his words was so plain there? He tossed the sheets aside; the air was cool in his room, but he was too hot, too uncomfortable. It was nearly one in the morning, and he was accomplishing nothing by laying here, stewing, worrying. Worrying. Now that was a new one, one that he knew he needn't bother with. Hermione worried enough for the pair of them. For the pair of them, plus Potter, Weasley, and then some, maybe.

He tossed the blankets off and strode to the bathroom door, listening. He thought he heard her ragged breathing, the kind that signified she had passed into fitful sleep after doing some more pointless worrying—and crying. Over Weasley, over him, over hurting people. She really cared too much. She really felt too much. And it was for that reason that he'd snapped at her, because his own insecurities about being with her were apt to spring up at the worst of times. She felt so much, and he wondered if he would ever be able to do that—to feel so full of emotion like it was clear she did, to show it like she did. Unlikely. He was still Draco Malfoy, last time he'd checked.

It was hard to believe that they'd shared a kiss in the shadows of the train station just earlier that day. Already, the moment seemed a lifetime ago, especially with the confrontation creating this space between them.

His strides ate up the bathroom in mere steps, and then he quietly slipped through the door to her bedroom, taking in her rumpled and restless form beneath all the tangled blankets. Without much of a thought about what would happen when she woke, probably still angry at him, possibly still upset, he straightened the blankets and slid beneath them, letting his body curl around hers. As his arm draped over her waist, she gave a little squirm, and woke with a gasp.

"Shh," he whispered, trying to sound reassuring. "It's only me."

Predictably, she gave another little squirm, trying to move out of the encircling arms of his embrace. "I'm not in the mood, Malfoy," her voice said, hoarse from sleep and the tears she'd shed.
Be nice. Just this once. Try to act like...like you care about her. Do what she does, for you. It can't be that hard. Hesitantly, he towed her back into his arms, though she continued to protest, and nuzzled his lips against her neck. "I'm sorry," he murmured into her skin. The words came out easier than they had on previous occasions, and he nearly sighed in relief. If he was going soft, he may as well do it properly. With chagrin, he continued. "I shouldn't have gotten angry with you."

She had stopped trying to get away from him, at least. "I'm sorry I'm so torn up over Ron," she whispered thickly. "It's just, he's my best friend. I hate hurting him. I hate hurting Harry. I hate making them choose something that's uncomfortable for them just to accommodate me."

"Then why did you choose me?" he asked her, his voice probing. "You knew how difficult it would be."

She was silent for so long that he was certain she was rethinking her choice. Well, bloody hell, it would be easier for him, too. He could go back to being an insufferable git—it would be easy—and no one would be the wiser. Except that the memories of her warm, soft body in his arms would haunt him forever, much as he'd like to believe he didn't need her like that. "It wasn't a choice," she finally said. "It wasn't a conscious decision. It doesn't work like that."

"No? It seems like it would be better that way."

She rolled over to face him, letting her cheek rest against the pillow. "Did it work like that for you?" she asked, sardonically. "I don't see the benefit at all, in your case."

He wrinkled his nose. "Don't be ridiculous. Do you really think I'm capable of consciously choosing you, over my heritage, over my engrained way of life?"

She smiled sadly. "No." She paused. "But if it wasn't that, what was it?"

Don't fuck it up, Draco. Say something nice. Tell her the truth. The way she makes you feel, the things you like about her. He cringed, wrapping an arm around her waist to pull her closer, pulling his other hand through her soft, wild hair. "It's...hard to explain," he muttered, ambiguously, as she looked up at him, her warm brown eyes staring into his guarded ones.

"I promise I won't laugh," she said, though she looked like she was on the verge of doing so. "And I won't tell anyone. Your big bad reputation will be safe."

He scowled at her. "No."

She frowned back. "Please? I really won't laugh. Or tell."

He was quiet for another moment, letting his hand fall from her hair to stroke her back. She sighed quietly, contentedly. "Every time you got angry at me," he said, abruptly, trying to force feeling into the words, "it made me feel like hell. And at the same time, I wanted you mad at me. It was so much easier. And you're gorgeous when you're angry. I'm not making any sense." He felt furious, frustrated. Why was this so hard?

"Tell me more." Her voice was quiet, but inviting.

"You always try so hard," he continued. "But you don't have to. You're good at everything, a natural. And you tried so hard to get along with me, even after everything. Even though we both can't help but just...always disagree with one another. It's...a relief. To realize that you would keep trying. It made me..." He shook his head. "You cared," he muttered. "You always cared. Sometimes I hate that about you. It really messes you up sometimes. But others..." He trailed off again, and grumbled in frustration.

"It's okay," she murmured, pressing her forehead to his chest. "Eventually..."

"You think?" he asked, propping his chin on her head. "Someday?"

"Someday, you'll tell me everything," she agreed. "For now, this is enough."

He listened to her fall asleep, his hand stroking her hair again. He had been resisting the pull of her for so long—had been resisting the pull of emotion for so long. It felt out-of-control to give in, to touch her in a way that was soft and gentle and didn't have to lead to physical gratification. To try to say the things he felt, the things he didn't know how to put into words. He'd never done that.

Love.

The thought was sudden and bold in his head, and he reeled momentarily in the idea of it. Was that what this was? He loved his parents, yes—wanted them to be safe and happy—but other than that safe, familial love, he hadn't experienced much of this emotion. Was this it? Did he love her?

He opened his mouth to try it out. She was asleep; it wouldn't matter. It would be a trial run. She wouldn't hear.

"I love you," he told her quietly, pressing his lips to her hair.

The words hung in the air around him, and he suddenly wished she was awake to say them back.