Chapter 43

Kiss Me Again

7th March, 1998

The library was still their sanctuary, she thought. How odd. Sunshine through a window, a stack of books, and two chairs sufficed to make them happy. Or had sufficed, for a long time. She couldn't remember a time when she hadn't loved books; when had Draco turned to them for solace? Was it only this year, when he could find no other place to be alone?

Now, though, reading seemed overrated when he was sitting across from her. She would lean on one hand, her elbow supported by the table, watching him in silence. As he read, his grey eyes travelled from left to right, and his eyelids lowered every now and then in a quick blink, and for a moment long, golden eyelashes would touch pale skin before his eyes opened wide again. She liked his way of reading; concentrated, almost determined, as though whatever he was reading was fascinating. He knew she watched him, had to know, because she made no attempt to hide it. He had said nothing about it, had avoided the subject altogether. She took it as permission to stare, so she did. It didn't seem to bother him; at least, he was able to read under her gaze.

Today she did have a book and was actually reading it: Jane Eyre. And Draco wasn't reading, he was writing an essay, and his essaying expression was not nearly as interesting as his reading expression, so she didn't stare. She read. After a few minutes, she found she was reading the same line over and over again and couldn't shake an uncomfortable feeling. She raised her eyes to find Draco's, fixed on hers.

"What?" she asked.

He smiled. "It isn't such a pleasant feeling, is it?"

"What isn't?" she said, puzzled.

"Being stared at while you read."

She felt her face heat up, and he laughed.

"Just so you know," he said, not looking the least bit annoyed.

There had been no awkwardness, no uncomfortable silences since the kiss. Conversation glided easily over the subject, never once threatening to touch it, as though it had simply never happened. Draco had seemed perfectly content to keep on going as they had been, talking, reading, studying and brewing potions together. They had even met at the Quidditch pitch the day before, to practice his Patronus one last time; he had excelled. She had felt such a burst of pride and satisfaction that she felt she had to be content, too, if Draco was. Until now, what he had felt, she had been able to understand and, in a way, make the feeling hers – his regrets, his bitterness, his rare joys. This quiet contentedness, though, she could not understand; she knew he was gladder than she was to have mastered the Patronus, but that didn't account for his ease, his calm. She had never seen him this relaxed, whereas she herself had never been this tense around him.

He noticed nothing, or pretended not to notice. She couldn't tell, because she couldn't read him as he sometimes seemed to read her. She could only guess in him what he allowed her to guess, and since then he allowed her nothing except this confusing, irritating calm.

"What happened?" she asked suddenly.

"I don't know," he said. "What did?"

"I meant, what happened to you? You're... different."

"I am," he acknowledged. "The memories of Azkaban I had – I can deal with them now. I used to ignore them, but now I simply don't care anymore, and they float around in my head and can't hurt me no matter how hard they try. I'm simply not afraid any longer."

"Oh," she said. She had no idea his fears went so deep, no idea that curing him of his bad memories would have such an effect. Her heart softened. "I'm glad."

"You should be," he said. "It's thanks to you."

The smile he gave her was true, and her heart leapt. There was something very different about Draco in all he did, all he thought, all he felt. She had never felt so close to someone else.

"Salazar, I'm tired," Draco said suddenly, throwing his quill to the side and stretching. "To hell with essays."

"You should finish it today," she said gently. "So you won't have to do it tomorrow."

To her fourteen-year-old self, Viktor had seemed to be her very soul, reflected back to her as though by a mirror: clever, attentive, sensitive beneath his gruff Bulgarian exterior; but whatever they might have had had been cut short by real-world differences: her age, his social standing, the Tournament. He still wrote to her, but only every few weeks.

"If you let me copy off you, this would go so much faster," Draco said, massaging his right wrist with his other hand. "Oh, forget it. I'm getting a cramp from writing too much."

"That's from Quidditch practice when you sprained your wrist catching the Snitch."

Then there was Ron, whose love for her had been proven and broken in a single battle. They had had a glimpse of what being together could be like – and then the dream had shattered. She was too sensible, too cowardly to try. He had been too caught up in his grief to notice.

"You're probably right."

"Won't you let Madam Pomfrey look at it?"

"There's no need," he said, not for the first time. "I learnt how to cure this kind of thing growing up. Injuries are more common than air where I come from. It'll be fine."

"It's getting bluer," she observed. "And if you can't write –"

"I can write," he said, picking his quill up again and dipping it in the inkwell. "I just don't want to. Leave it, Hermione. Madam Pomfrey can't stand me anyway."

Well, he was probably right about that. Few people could "stand" Draco nowadays, fewer than before, even. But they were close-minded, she reflected. How could they fail to see how changed he was? Right off the bat, her curiosity had overtaken her enmity for him. They had talked. They had come to a series of understandings, even though there were still so many things they hadn't talked about, would never talk about, not directly. Things from the past which shouldn't be brought up; the bruises on her arm, for example.

"She's a good nurse and a good person."

"I know that," he said, scratching a few additional words to his parchment. "Only three inches to go... I know," he said again, looking up at her. "That's why I won't go to see her."

There was something bitter in his grey eyes, and that more than anything was what made Hermione relent. She didn't want to press him too much, to force him into irritation when he could be this calm. She knew his bitterness and knew it was better avoided; she hadn't seen it in him since his first successful Patronus four days ago. Since the kiss.

There had been something strangely alluring about that kiss – something bittersweet. She had kissed back because she wanted to, but also because she instinctively knew that pushing him away would have broken him – that it was the one thing she couldn't do to him.

But he was the one who had pulled back and who didn't seem to care.

"Hermione," he said, not looking away from her; his expression softened and the bitterness faded. "Knut for your thoughts."

"I was thinking," she said slowly, "that I would give anything to have you always happy, never bitter."

"Would you?" he asked, his voice oddly quiet and an intensity she'd never seen in him burning in his eyes.

"I would."

"How odd."

"How odd?" she repeated.

"I don't think I deserve to be eternally happy," he said. "And I think it must be dull to be always happy, because after a while, happiness would become normal. And then it wouldn't be happiness anymore."

"You're right," she agreed. "I wasn't thinking sense."

"Still, it was a nice thought," he said musingly. "If I could hold on to this feeling forever, I would probably try to."

"What are you feeling?" she asked. "Is it just not fear, or is is – freedom, or giddiness, or what?"

He looked thoughtful. "It's calm," he said finally.

"How can you be calm?" she asked, suddenly irritated; he was calm. Calm!

"I don't know," he said. "I just am. I don't think I've ever felt anything like this before. I'm happy, but not in an ecstatic way. Just... calm." He set his quill down again and sighed. "We need to talk, don't we?"

"It feels like we always do," she said, fiddling with the cover of Jane Eyre.

"Maybe we should always be talking, then. Never stop." He smiled. "I wonder what you would be like if you were chatty."

"Irritating, I think."

"Probably," he agreed. "It's better to spend more time thinking than talking. But between us, that doesn't seem to work, does it?"

"Because you always know what I'm thinking," she said. "And I don't."

"You don't know what you're thinking, or what I'm thinking?"

"Both. Neither." She paused. "Which is grammatically correct?"

"I have no idea," he said. "I can't always tell what you're thinking. But right now, I can. You know I'm thinking about it, too, don't you?"

"I don't know anything. I haven't been able to read you correctly since I kissed you."

"Well, that was blunt."

She averted her eyes.

"But you've got it wrong," he said airily. "If I remember it correctly, it happened the other way around. I kissed you."

"I kissed back," she said without thinking.

"Yes. You did."

"Don't you want to know why?"

He smiled. How could he smile as though nothing had happened, as though it had all been a joke?

"I'm irresistible."

She opened her mouth to protest, then closed it. It wasn't true and they both knew it. She was sure plenty of women – definitely all the girls at Hogwarts – would be more than capable of resisting Draco Malfoy. There was no need to remind them both of that fact. What mattered was that it was true for her.

"It's not that I don't want to know," he said, more seriously. "It's just that... it doesn't really matter, does it?"

"Is that what you think?"

"It is what it is," he said. "And neither of us can help it."

"Kiss me again," she said suddenly.

He looked at her. "What?"

"Please," she said, unable to explain herself.

She needed to feel it again, feel his warm breath mingling with hers, feel his arms wrapped tightly around her, feel the soft pressure of his lips on hers. Feel the fire engulf her once more, feel him pull back, leaving her wanting for more. She needed to figure out what it was exactly she had felt.

And when he didn't move, looking undecided, she looped her arms around his neck and dragged him forward into a second kiss, crashing his lips down to hers.

He was the one who froze this time, but it was as temporary as her own surprise had been moments earlier. Within seconds he was kissing back in an entirely different manner than their first kiss. These were hungry, furious kisses, teeth clashing, his lips tugging and pulling relentlessly, his hands running up her sides and across her back as though he'd never get tired of touching her. They lasted longer as well, long enough for her to catch the faintest aroma of bitter chocolate on his breath and, oh gods, his tongue.

It could have gone on for hours if Draco hadn't at last pulled back, his breathing uneven.

"Salazar," he said, "I take it back. You're the one who's irresistible."

And he didn't back out of her embrace. He didn't let go of her. It wasn't an ideal position, leaning over the table and holding on to each other – she was sure they'd spilt his inkwell –, but there was something so warm about his touch that it just felt right.

"Are you okay?" he added after a moment.

For a second, she considered not replying. Because she really didn't know the answer to that question. Was she okay? She had never felt this way before. Good or bad? Good, probably, if the the way her lips tingled was any indication. If the heat in her stomach and the warm flush on her face were any indication.

"Hermione?"

"I'm fine," she reassured him. "Better than fine."

"Right," he said, letting her go and leaning back again. "This doesn't change anything. It still doesn't matter."

"I don't understand."

"Well," he said slowly. "Suppose it was to happen again. And again, and again. It would have to stop anyway, someday. Our... friendship is still a secret. This wouldn't survive in daylight."

"And if I don't care?"

"I care," he said shortly, and something flashed in his eyes.

He stood up abruptly and started to throw his things into his back – quill, inkwell, parchment, books. She watched him in silence, and he left without a word. Where was he going? The Quidditch pitch? It was chilly out; sunny but cold nevertheless.

She took out the Marauder's Map, spotted the library, and followed with her eyes the dot which was moving rapidly away from it: Draco Malfoy. "I won't need it anymore. Not this year," Harry had said. "Take it, Hermione, please. You never know... it's been useful to us these past years." That had been true enough, and she had accepted the Map. She wondered whether Harry would agree with her use of it.

The dot disappeared.

LINEBREAK

She found him; he should have know she would. She was better at reading him than she thought; she often guessed right without realising it. He shouldn't be surprised anymore, but this was something new. The Room of Requirement was his room; he despised it, yes, but he knew it better than anyone else.

When the door opened, he started, turned around very quickly to face it, but it was only – only! – Hermione. She paused for a moment, her eyes adjusting to the dim light inside, flicking back and forth until she saw him. Then she entered and closed the door behind her.

"How did you know I was here?"

"I guessed."

"How did you get in?"

She smiled, a calm smile which looked odd with the flickering shadows the fire threw across her face. "You, of all people, should know. You know the Room better than I do."

"Why did you come?"

"If the mountain won't come to Mohammed..." she said enigmatically.

"What?"

"It's a Muggle saying. It means that sometimes you have to go after the things you want. You left, so I came to you. Here."

She looked around. The room he had asked for was plain, with wooden planks lining the floor and unpainted concrete walls. A fireplace stood in a corner; its very small fire was the only source of light in the room. It gave off no heat, because Draco despised all that burnt since Crabbe's Fiendfyre. There was an armchair near it; he knew from experience that it was comfortable, but he had been standing when she came in.

"This is... your sanctuary?"

"My what?"

"Your sanctuary," she repeated. "You came here a lot, before, didn't you? Did it look like this in sixth year? Where did you put the Vanishing Wardrobe?"

"Hermione," he said warningly.

"You said you hated this place," she said. "Why did you come back?"

He shrugged. "I thought, if there was one place where I could be alone, this would be it. Obviously I thought wrong."

"Crabbe died here," she said quietly. She was still smiling, but it was a fixed, cool smile. "Doesn't it bother you?"

She was eyeing the fire with distaste; he felt a surge of sympathy for her.

"Those memories haunted me for weeks when I was in Azkaban. I don't want to spend my life reliving them. What's done is in the past – you're the one who taught me that."

Her smile became warmer. "You're right. I'm glad you realise that."

He realised something else. "What happened last time is also in the past, right?"

The smile faltered. "It is. Have you moved on, then?"

"We should try to forget it."

She looked away, then back at him. He heard her swallow, and her next words were very quiet.

"And if I don't want to forget?"

He cut his eyes to her.

She took a tentative step forward. And another, sidling up to him until she was almost, but not quite, touching him. In the flickering light, her eyes shone like gold.

"I don't want to forget," she repeated clearly.

She tilted her head back, and their lips touched. And even though he knew it was madness – knew this couldn't and wouldn't lead anywhere good –, he let it happen. And he deepened the kiss, losing himself in a sea of warmth. Emotion. Tenderness.

Happiness.

Some more Dramione sweetness. I couldn't resist it.