Chapter thirty five – Of Steps Forward and Steps Back

Draco tried to be patient with Ginny, but it was hard. It was Tuesday and all of her attempts at tailing Hermione had been in vain. There was always a door she couldn't get through without being noticed, always a group of kids in the way, a class she had to attend . . . Draco could admit that it was hardly her fault – how could she control such things? But the point was, they weren't getting any closer to learning the truth.

"Maybe that's what you should do," Ginny said, staring into the fire, on Tuesday evening. "Try to coax it out of her – like confide in you, or whatever. That would be kind of a bonding thing, get you two closer again, right?"

Malfoy shook his head, not in protest, but defeat. "That wouldn't work, trust me."

"Why not?" Ginny demanded, sitting up straighter.

"Because, this was happening before, too, and when I asked about it . . . it didn't go well. And now that she hates my guts even worse, how do you think that it will help the situation any?" Malfoy asked, remembering briefly the way his jealously had prompted him to kiss Hermione. Now, the thought of it made his stomach turn. It had been weeks that she had been sneaking off . . . what now, did he have to be jealous of?

"Happening before?" Ginny repeated blankly. "Wait, so . . . do you have any idea of what it could be, then?"

Draco turned his head an inch, and his hand rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. There hadn't been any real conviction in Ginny's question when she had asked it, but now she came to the edge of her seat, her eyes popping open.

"You do! You do, too, know!" she exclaimed. "Why the hell am I following her around then, if you knew all this time?"

"I don't know for sure!" Draco amended. "Calm down."

"Tell me right now!" she ordered fiercely. "I'm here, trying to help you, and you're keeping things from me!"

He groaned. This was something he did not want to discuss. Telling one of Hermione's closest friends suspicions that were probably very true was not something he had ever intended to do. Having Ginny see it, and find out for herself was one thing – that way she could only be angry or upset with Hermione or the wretched, stupid, disgusting . . . Well, either way, she couldn't be angry with him – a sort of 'don't shoot the messenger' type of situation.

And to top it all off, Ginny actually had helped him out a great deal. First off, she had dragged him out of the depressed rut in which he had buried himself in. Next, she had opened his eyes to the dangerously suspicious disappearances of Hermione.

Not only that, but they had been discussing the terrible events of that New Year's Eve together, trying to untangle the complicated pattern of lies and misunderstandings that had sprung out of nowhere and exploded in Draco's face. Not that they had done much but sort out the order of events, what had been said and who had done what (supposedly), but still, it was a good start.

Draco looked at Ginny. Her eyes were narrowed, shrewd, and almost as fiery as her hair. He sighed and sat back.

"I can't," he said. He would not be the one to make someone think ill of Hermione. He had done that enough in the past without justifiable reasons. And now that he . . . well, to be plain with himself, he knew that he was still madly and hopelessly in love with the girl. He could never speak against her again. Love was his greatest weakness, and also his greatest strength. It gave him the reason to get through each day, but also tore him down every moment he thought of her.

"You know what? I don't know why I ever wanted to help you," Ginny said in a low, dangerous voice. "I am not going to sit here and try and try and try . . . while you won't even tell me what you know! Listen, if I can try and get along with you then the least you can do is open your mouth and –!"

"I can't!" he shouted abruptly. "Sorry. I – I just can't. That's that. If you don't want to help me any longer, that's your decision, but I'm not going to give up."

Ginny barred her teeth in raging frustration. "Why can't you tell me?"

He shook his head. "It's irrational. I just can't tell you . . . you need to find out for yourself, Ginny, trust me."

"Trust you?" she asked incredulously. "Right. Well, then. I'm leaving. Maybe you did try and hurt Hermione, maybe I was wrong about you–"

"Hey!" Draco said, standing swiftly. Ginny had already stood and was walking towards the door. "Don't you accuse me of–!"

"Of what? Of something you admitted and 'just don't understand why'? Oh, please. What a stupid story. Why did I think I could ever help you? You won't even help me help you. You won't even help yourself. This is going nowhere. Just like you. Have a nice life, Malfoy."

"Ginny wait!" Draco shouted. But she had already disappeared behind the door. It shut with a loud bang and Draco was left alone once again. He fell back into the couch and growled angrily at nothing in particular. This was a disaster.

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Hermione sighed and closed the thick, heavy book encrusted with dust in front of her. She heaved it into her arms and slid it back onto the shelf where she had found it. Rolling up her parchments and tucking them away neatly, she swung her bag over her shoulder and stretched. She had finished her homework for the week – now the next few days could be devoted to pure relaxation, besides her Head's Duties, that is.

She walked quickly from the library, heading down the familiar maze of corridors that would lead her to her destination. It had become sort of like an easy lifestyle to her now. Classes, homework, Head's Duties, and spending time with Michael (not always in that order, of course). And also . . . she didn't really like to count the hours that quickly added up, hours where she did nothing but think of a pale, blonde boy with icy silver eyes.

It hadn't gotten any better – the feeling that burned her every now and then, when she knew that it was far from impossible to get to him if she wanted. To sidetrack herself, as she always did now, she went and spent time with Michael instead. Again and again, she would tell herself it didn't count as a rebound or a second place when she actually did care for him, but again and again . . . the guilt would crash down on her like a heavy wave from the ocean.

But how else was she supposed to deal with the dangerously unbalanced amount of stress and pain in her life at the moment? Was she supposed to just let herself go completely – crawl back to Draco and let herself want him again? When she knew what the outcome could be? When she knew the pain that would stab her when it all came to another abrupt end?

No, Hermione knew better than to cave.

But, she asked herself, how was it she did not know better than to use Michael the way she so often did lately?

She bit her lip in thought. It wasn't as if she didn't enjoy it – the fact was, though it might not be the best, it was very, very good. The warmth from his lips could spread through her body so quickly that she was almost sweating with the heat. He gave her butterflies. He made her smile and laugh. He could share intellect with her, teach her, and have smooth, flowing conversations for hours at a time. They could spend time together and it would never feel awkward or strained.

Hermione had to remind herself how much older than her he was. It wasn't much, but it was enough for her to know that he had had experiences with relationships before this one. It was only adolescents that felt so determinedly awkward during a serious relationship. Sometimes the awkwardness wasn't even so bad . . . sometimes it was funny, sometimes it was a good challenge . . . scary firsts that weren't just scary, but exciting . . .

Hermione shook her head. Sure, he could be more relaxed because he was more confident and experienced, and sure she could just be feeding off from that – but where was the harm?

Hermione bit her lip again, harder this time. There was a lot of harm being done – she knew that already. It wasn't just to herself, her heart, her mind, to Michael and his own . . . but to the very strict and reasonable rules she should be abiding by. Rules that said it was so highly inappropriate to have a relationship stronger than strictly formidable with a teacher. Rules that said if one was underage, and the other overage . . . it was considered all types of bad things. Aspects that she hadn't considered until lately, too, now presented themselves. What about her parents? This would hurt them and disgust them – Hermione didn't want to think which emotion would be stronger. Either way, it would hurt if they found out.

And, in terms of people finding out and people getting hurt . . .

Harry, Ron, Ginny. Mrs and Mr Weasley. Hagrid. Professor McGonnagal. Professor Dumbledore. Hermione felt her stomach plunge uncomfortably, her insides swirling around, her face warming with worry.

She had been so occupied with being so daring and different, so impulsive, so carefree . . . she had almost forgotten completely who she was.

These were the thoughts she had mulled over while doing her homework tonight.

Following the same steps she always did – sneaking through the passageway, stairs, corridor, right, left, two more rights . . . – she felt her thoughts becoming stronger. They pulsed inside of her, like a monster trying to break free – the truth.

Walking slower now, Hermione realized she was at Michael's classroom already – he was staying late to mark a pile of essays that should have been marked two days ago. Hermione blushed a brilliant magenta when she thought of what his distraction had been . . .

Another thing that warmed her neck and face rapidly these days, was the progressiveness of their relationship. They had gone from sweet, lingering kisses (the kind that got her adrenaline pumping), to deeper, more passionate, with lack of a better word, snogging (the kind that got her heart racing), and more recently, with all of the burning . . . there was the kisses that weren't just kisses in the least – but far, far more physical.

Hermione didn't like to think of it that way though – because it was hard to stop it once it started. She never realized exactly how intimate they got until they broke apart. She wondered if it was like that for him, too – if it was just a blur of burning passion – or if he was aware of every move he made, every kiss he gave. She wasn't sure how she felt about the latter. It kind of made her feel . . . manipulated.

But that wouldn't be the case. It was all her fault, anyway. She was the one who had started it – all of her desperate attempts to do whatever it took to banish Draco from her mind, her dreams . . . though, she could hardly help that.

Her thoughts ripping her head in two, she knocked on the door with a resigned sigh.

"Come in."

She entered and approached him at the head of the classroom. She found it hard sometimes, to think that months ago he had first walked through the door and she had given him a disparaging look. That she had disliked him. That she had been fighting with Draco and also fighting an incomprehensible attraction to him at the same time . . .

"Hermione?" Michael said unsurely.

"Sorry?"

"I asked how you were," he said. "Are you alright? You look a little pale."

"Yes, I'm fine," she lied smoothly. She perched herself up on a desk and stared at her dangling feet. "Almost finished?"

"Yes, just about," he confirmed. They sat in silence for a few minutes while he finished his marking and stacked the papers away. Hermione felt herself getting panicked.

It had been on her mind ever since this had even started. It was inevitable, but she felt so bad, so guilty, nervous, awkward – overall, terrible really. She liked Michael. But this had gone way too far. For crying out loud, it sounded ridiculous even in her thoughts!

I am dating Michael Dolop. Michael Dolop is a professor. I am dating a professor.

It almost made her physically sick to think about it and what would happen – should happen – if anyone found out. She was risking her entire reputation and future with a man that she should have just been friends with. Or maybe not even that. Professor and student – that would have been far more appropriate. After all, she considered herself friends with most of her other professors, and never would have gone to their office for tea. In fact, if one of her other professors had come up on her in the hallway in tears, she doubted if any of them would do more than ask if she was alright and send her on her way, not ask her back to their office for tea . . .

She wondered suddenly if she had really even started this at all. Sure, she had acknowledged Michael's good looks, and that had manifested into her immature crush. But what if it had started before that? With a professor who had an inappropriate crush on a student and did his very best to subtly see what would happen if he advanced and acted upon his feelings?

Hermione suddenly felt very uncomfortable sitting in the room. How had it never occurred to her before that this might have all been Michael's doing? His desire from the start . . .

Had he not been the first one to actually kiss her? Had he not approached her at the ball? Sure, she had blurted out something about her crush once in the library . . . but a professor should ignore and disregard such things, not become intrigued by them . . .

Was Michael really the wonderful person she saw him to be? Or was he nothing but an impressionable and wavering man with good looks and a brain that was good for nothing but school teaching?

Hermione bit her lip and stood. She could not deal with this right now. She needed time to think.

Michael looked up. He was just standing, having finished organizing his paperwork. "Hermione?"

"I think I'm too tired for tea tonight . . I think I'm just going to turn in . . . I don't need the caffeine, sorry," she said quickly, rambling. How could she suddenly feel so out of place in this room?

"Well, I'll walk you to your dorm and be on my way, then," he offered, seeming very gentlemanly.

"Okay," Hermione agreed, attempting to do so without any visible signs of disappointment. After all, how was he to understand her sudden mood swing?

"So, how was your night?" he asked casually, as they walked side-by-side down the empty corridor.

"Fine, good, got lots of homework done," she said. "And yours?"

"Oh, boring mostly. Grading papers isn't that great unless you have perfect patience. I'm still working on it," he said, and he laughed. Hermione forced out a nervous, reluctant laugh also.

His walk become noticeably slower as they went on and talked about miscellaneous issues. Hermione tried to speed up, but it was hard not to make it so pronounced. All she wanted was to get to her room and think . . . decide what to do . . . how to go about it . . .

They finally came upon the corridor that would lead them to her door. She sighed. Why was he taking so long?

"Something wrong?" he asked her suddenly.

"Er, no," she said, too quickly. He smiled.

"You know, Hermione . . ." he said slowly, quietly. They were just ten feet from the door now. "These passed few weeks have been . . . mad. I simply can't believe it at all sometimes."

Hermione didn't know what he was getting to, so all she said was, "Right. Yes."

And then he stopped completely, and of course, she had to as well. He turned to face her, so she turned her back to the wall and faced him, too. His eyes were suddenly intense, enigmatic. He placed his hand on the side of her face slowly. Apparently he was trying to make this a special moment, but Hermione couldn't seem to be emerged in it the way he could usually make her. All she could think of was going to bed and thinking long and hard . . . finding the right words . . . she knew she couldn't do it now . . . it would be too hard, too complicated, even for her to understand, and this needed to be done quite exactly to be done effectively . . .

"Hermione," he breathed. And she stared at him, terrified. She couldn't do this right now. "I know what this is, really, and how complicated it can get . . . and how, if, well . . . how to others it could seem very, well, quite wrong . . . but I can't help thinking about you all the time . . ."

She didn't answer. She had no idea what to say not to lead him on, and no idea how to make him back off without seeming too blunt or mean . . .

"I know that things have been moving fast between us," he admitted his voice still soft and nearly silent. His eyes were burning into hers. She couldn't quite read them, though it made her nervous.

"But . . ." he went on. "I can't help that, either." He grinned sheepishly. "Like I said, I am always thinking about you . . . and lately, I just . . ."

Hermione's heart suddenly broke into a sprint. She thought she knew where he may be going with this now. He leaned down to her face and kissed her. Her breathing became quick and shallow, but not from excitement – from fear, anxiety, discomfort. He wouldn't . . . really . . . think . . . that she . . . would . . .

Her thoughts couldn't even come smoothly. She felt like a wreck.

And then she definitely knew where he was trying to get with this speech . . .

He backed her into the wall very quickly and then the kiss deepened without time to comprehend anything. His hands were in her hair tightly. Hermione's were still at her side, pressed against the wall. She was in shock. She had never felt this nervous or uncomfortable in her life. He had only just kissed her less than a minute ago, but it felt like an hour.

One of his hands left her hair and traveled down her neck, her shoulder, down her rib cage, and then finally to the outside of her thigh. Hermione thought her heart may have stopped for second.

He pulled her thigh up and hooked it around his waist. Hermione felt like her whole body had one giant, burning pulse. It was almost as if he didn't notice that she was hardly participating in what he thought must be a very romantic, intense moment. The palm of her hands were still pressed against the wall.

His other hand left her hair and traveled to her waist, above her skirt. Slowly, he untucked her shirt and placed his hand on the burning skin of her back. He paused for a few seconds, and then his hand began rubbing her back. It was just on her ribs when Hermione became hyper-aware that they were in the corridor and not in a private office. Somehow it seemed doubly as wrong when she was so out in the open, exposed, like he thought they were a normal couple or something . . .

The hand on her thigh began to move upwards as well. It had just passed the hem of her skirt when Hermione's mind seemed to finally kick into gear. This. Was. So. Wrong. What was she doing?

Hermione unstuck her hands from the wall and placed them on his shoulders. She pushed lightly, and pulled her head back and to the side. But he merely began to kiss her neck. Hermione felt hot with guilt, embarrassed, shameful. But he wouldn't pull away.

Hermione yanked her leg down and grabbed his wrist. She wrenched it from under her shirt and then shoved him away from her violently.

"Stop!" she said. Her eyes, surprisingly, were filled with tears not because of sadness, but because of anger and embarrassment. She turned on her heel and ran the remaining ten feet to the door. She huffed the password through tears and breathlessness and the portrait swung open.

"Wait!" Michael said, stepping forward. Evidently, he was the one in shock now.

Hermione turned. She held up her hand, palm out, to deter him from coming closer or speaking. It was shaking. "No," her voice broke. "G-go away, please."

And then she shut the door behind her. Her body still felt like it was pounding. She slid down onto the floor and tried to calm herself down. She really hoped he had left. It would just about send her into hysterics if he came to the door tonight.

Several things began flying through her mind at once, before she could even stand.

First, she would never, ever be comfortable being that physical with Michael. Their kisses were intimate at times, but they were still only kisses. Anything else seemed completely outrageous and she couldn't help but to cringe at the thought of it. She supposed it had been the comfort, physically, that allowed her to enjoy the kissing. He made her feel wanted. Everyone needed that.

Second, she was angry with Michael for thinking he could do that without any warning. How dare he?

Next, she now knew one hundred percent that she must end things with him once and for all the very next time they met up.

Hermione let those decisions sink in for a moment, thinking them through, repeating them mutely to herself. She was still breathing deeply.

And then finally, she pushed herself up into a standing position. She walked over to the kitchen table and leaned against the chair for a moment.

No longer would she be with Michael. She would never kiss him again. Surprisingly, the thought relieved her so much she almost smiled. How much of a terrible person was she? Maybe she hadn't started the 'relationship', but had she not participated? And quite actively, too?

But wait, she thought a second later, had he not just tried to . . . well, she knew what he had just tried to do. That was so far past the line, even in their relationship, that she still felt increasingly embarrassed, enraged, and ashamed to even think about it.

After all, she had only ever done that once in her life . . .

Once again, she found herself thinking about Draco.

She bit her lip and closed her eyes. Her head was so full. She didn't want to think anymore. She always over-thought everything. It had landed her in this mess.

She remembered the way she had used to not think when she was with Draco. The way things just happened. And afterwards, she didn't feel like this. She felt . . . happy. More complete, somehow. The way their demeanor towards each other had slowly changed and become so much more meaningful and intense was a good thing in her life.

She didn't regret a moment of it, if she wanted to be honest with herself.

And, as she sighed and opened her eyes, she decided that once and for all, Draco did not try and hurt her that wretched night. His confession was absurd and impossible . . . and yes, it was a confession. But love was irrational, as she had known for quite some time now, and the more she realized she loved the blonde boy still, the less she cared about that stupid confession . . . In face, the more she realized she still loved him, the more she realized that he was probably in his room . . .

She turned around and looked at his door. So long since she had wanted to see him and actually had the nerve to . . . so long since she had admitted to herself that he owned her heart.

So long that she had been denying herself what she really wanted, and needed . . . something she could have had . . .

Who cared about the stupid fight? He had tried to apologize, right? He had tried to talk to her, right?

Her heart began speeding up the more she stared at his door. She took slow steps towards it. She knew he was in there . . . all she had to do was knock. He would be standing in front of her . . .

Butterflies erupted in her stomach as she took the last few steps. She felt strangely dizzy, light-headed, giddy. Her insides burned, and not only with excitement . . .

She raised her hand to the door, and then softly knocked twice. She let her hand slowly fall to her side. She swallowed nervously. She felt all the weeks of avoided feelings building up inside her. She had never felt this way before. Hermione actually felt a surge of need go through her body.

The door opened then.

His hair was disheveled. He wore his jeans and a black jumper. His silver eyes were wide as they met her chocolate brown ones.

"Hermione . . .?" he said slowly, quietly.

For a single moment, they just stared at each other. Draco felt fire blaze inside him as he stared deeply at the beautiful girl he loved, standing in his doorway, with a strange look of intensity in her eyes . . .

"Hey," Hermione breathed.

She stepped forward and took his face into her hands. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead she covered it with her own.