Chapter Forty-Three

Draco stood next to the wall, eyes narrowed at Blaise, and both hands curled into fists at his sides. He didn't rise to Blaise's words, not wanting to cause a scene at his mother's party—well, not wanting to draw wands in the middle of a crowd at any rate. Anyone looking at him, however, would be able to see in his expression that he promised retribution at a later time. That time was shrinking by the second, though, the longer Blaise stood smirking beneath his plague doctor mask.

Behind Blaise a small crowd had started to gather, other students' attention caught by the minor scuffle between Hermione and the Slytherin muttering coming from the group though had more to do with Pansy Parkinson—clad in a sleek silver gown and a curling Koi mask—pointing out the mistletoe above Hermione and Draco to her friend, and starting to whisper frantically behind her hand, eyes narrowed. Draco held himself rigid. When Hermione had jerked away from the berries some enterprising house elf had apparently strung up without Draco's knowledge, he'd felt a pain in his chest. Of course Hermione was horrified to find herself cornered in such a place. He didn't blame her for pulling away—it was just that he'd talked himself into believing that maybe, just maybe—after their flight through the falling stars, after their dances tonight…she might be amenable such an experience.

"Don't touch her!" Draco heard himself half-shout, ignoring Pansy and what she wold think of his reaction, when he saw Blaise catch Hermione's waist as she stumbled out of the alcove. Blaise ducked down to murmur something into Hermione's ear, and Draco saw red at the fear on her face as she pulled away, stumbling back toward him and ending up back in the alcove, her expression frantic though she tried to suppress it. He glanced about the growing crowd, half expecting the musicians to come to a screeching halt in the middle of the waltz they were playing. He took half a step to the side—mirroring the one Blaise had just taken, narrowing his eyes at the flash of blue he glimpsed on Blaise's wrists—unconsciously shielding Hermione with his body as he scanned the crowd for allies. He needed Phil to appear. He was always a solid bet to temper Draco's anger. He'd even take Potter just then—though considering Blaise was once again harassing one of Potter's best friends, Potter might just beat Draco to the first curse.

xXx

Hermione could feel a blush heating her already flushed cheeks, rosy from dancing and spiked cider and the general warmth of a room too full of people, and pressed her back against the cool, smooth stone of the wall. A shiver of relief at having something solid at her back ran through her. She fought to suppress the tremble Blaise's brief touch had brought on. She had just started to feel safe from him, with Harry and Ginny's constant reassurances that the Aurors wouldn't allow him to return to Hogwarts, and now he was here, groping her in a crowd of people as if he'd never left.

Dimly she registered Draco's shout as she stumbled past him, the fine hairs on the back of her neck prickling with the tang of rising, unspent magic in the air, and she willed the situation not to resort to wands. Her heart began to beat faster in her chest and she closed her eyes, trying to slow her quickening breathing. Blaise couldn't do anything to her here. There were too many people around. Draco, and Harry, and Ginny, and Ron, and Phil… She was safe. Draco would throw him out.

Stupid Blaise, she intoned silently, trying to will him away with the sheer force of her hatred. Stupid, drama-loving, scene-causing Blaise who didn't care that he was trying to steal the romance of her first kiss with Draco by putting them on display for half the school…And who said he even wanted to kiss her? Or she him—that is, she thought maybe she might…but certainly not here, not now…even if he was interested in doing so. And if he did so now, publicly, after being goaded into it by the crowd, did it even mean anything? It was mistletoe. It was too cliché to even count. Hermione squeezed her eyes tighter, shutting out the embarrassment of being made a spectacle in such a horribly intimate manner.

A shadow moved in front of her then, blocking the blaze of candles and darkening Hermione's vision from behind her eyelids. Her eyes jolted open in panic, a slight gasp escaping as her body tensed in anticipation of the option that perhaps Blaise had decided they were taking too long to take advantage of the situation and had stepped in as he'd threatened. The polished black shoes standing in front of her belonged to a different boy though, one who'd apparently decided that he did not want to put on a show and was now blocking Hermione from the watching crowd as much as he could with the breadth of his own body. This wasn't particularly hard to do, considering the difference in their physical sizes, but she appreciated it all the same.

Draco had turned to look at her, his face smooth, though there was a tightness around his eyes and mouth as he regarded her by the wall, as if he thought she might bolt like a startled deer. There was something in his eyes as he looked at her though, something curious, and maybe even hopeful. Looking at him, she felt her heart slow a little, drawing comfort from his nearness, despite everything. Perhaps she was being ridiculous. It was just a quick peck under the mistletoe, after all. No one would take it seriously. Draco could just laugh it off—a Christmas lark that happened at parties like these. She should just step forward, reach up, and do it herself. Get things over with so Blaise could have his stupid laugh at their expense and then leave. She could, of course, have refused to entertain the ridiculous tradition altogether and simply left the room, but she didn't want to give Blaise Zabini the satisfaction. That, and the fact that she actually did want to—

"Breathe, Granger, I'm not going to bite you," came a low murmur in her ear, too soft for anyone other than her to hear, and Hermione's eyes lifted of their own accord so that she was looking up into the quietly amused face of Draco Malfoy—how had he suddenly gotten so close to her? He had a faint smile on his lips, something about his expression soft and wondering, though his eyes were watchful, measuring her reaction.

"Sorry," she managed to whisper, finding her world reduced to a pair of glittering grey eyes, the crowd beyond Draco's back falling away from Hermione's notice as the pair of them stared at each other.

xXx

He'd honestly meant to do one of two things in the moment he turned away from Blaise to see how Granger was doing behind him. One: grab her hand and pull her through the crowd and out of the room, damn what anyone would think of him for doing so. Or two: spin back around, drawing his wand on the fly, and start shooting spells at random at Blaise, again damn what anyone would think of him. But a tiny, reasonable part of his mind reminded Draco that there were too many people near by that he might hit by accident if he started flinging curses willy-nilly, and a larger, more driven part of him that informed him that Hermione was standing under the mistletoe, in front of him right now. And, Merlin help him, his desire for her rose up in a powerful wave. He cursed inwardly, struggling to clear his head.

She had shifted her focus from Blaise and the whispering, jeering, onlookers, to him, and he could see the change in her emotions as clearly as if she'd said them aloud. She'd startled at his movement toward her, and he bit back a scowl over the fact that Zabini had once again driven a wedge between he and Granger's budding relationship. He couldn't afford to let his anger show overtly, or he'd risk scaring her off even more. He had to do damage control now. Blaise wanted Draco to react to his taunts, instead Draco would ignore him and focus on the person who really mattered in this situation. He moved slowly toward Hermione, watching as she registered that it was he, and not Zabini who had joined her in the alcove, and breathed a silent sigh of relief as her body visibly relaxed. And yet, she was tense in other ways. Draco let his eyes flick upward to the mistletoe and back down to where Hermione stood, her hands knotting anxiously in front of her chest as she seemed to steel herself for whatever came next.

Draco frowned slightly. Did she think he meant to take advantage of her in this situation? That he had orchestrated their dancing so that they would end up here? Did she think he'd even for a second try and kiss her without her express consent, especially after what Blaise had done to her? Swallowing back his distaste over such a possibility, Draco kept his movements slow and careful, coming to a stop right in front of her and trying to lighten the mood with his usual teasing charm. It seemed to work, at least in part, as Hermione seemed to jerk out of her own thoughts, blinking up at him with a soft apology. He felt his focus shift from away from the watching crowd then. Hermione seemed to glitter and glow in the soft candlelight sparkling off the Christmas tree next to them, and he had to take a deep breath in order to pull his scattering thoughts together. It really wasn't fair. Of course he wanted to kiss her. But not like this. Not in any way he thought might embarrass her or scare her off.

He swallowed hard, reminding himself that if they went through with this it didn't really mean anything. It was Christmas and it was mistletoe… and it was a stupid tradition anyway. Draco held her gaze steadily, willing Hermione to see in his eyes that this wasn't a joke to him. He'd had too many meaningless snogs in similar situations over the years. He didn't think he could bare for Hermione to think she was just one more in a long list of conquests. Pressing his lips together into a thin line, he looked searchingly into her deep brown eyes, trying to see what she wanted him to do.

xXx

Draco looked down at her for a long moment, so long that Hermione half-expected Blaise to yell at them to 'get on with it already', though if he did say something, she was far past caring. There were other, more immediate, things that required her attention. Such as the elegant figure Draco cut in his fine clothes. She cast a glance up his body, taking in everything from the dark trousers and polished black shoes, to the emerald waistcoat he wore over his crisp white dress shirt. The vest shimmered dully in the candlelight, metallic threads glinting in swirling designs that might have been simple curlicues or might have been snakes, she couldn't quite tell in this light. His fine blond hair curled slightly over his ears and at the back of his neck, giving him a roguish look that did funny things to Hermione's stomach. She swallowed hard, wetting her lips anxiously, finding it increasingly difficult to hold Draco's clear, steady gaze.

"You don't have to do this, you know," Draco murmured softly. "We can just say 'sod 'em' and walk out."

Hermione nodded mutely in acknowledgement of Draco's offer. For a fleeting moment she considered grabbing his hand and fleeing through the crowd, away from Blaise, away from Pansy, but the hint of hopefulness in his tone, the tiniest possibility that he wanted her to stay, held Hermione in place. Instead of moving away, Hermione set her shoulders back, steeling herself and trying to breath around her pounding heart.

"I know," she whispered, feeling her chest swell with several emotions at once. There was anxiety and embarrassment of course, but also excitement and hope. She both wanted the whole experience to be over in a blink and yet also for it to drag out. She felt guilty for looking forward to the feeling of Draco's lips, while still angry that Blaise had pushed them into this situation. Her anticipation soured at this and Hermione swallowed hard, determined to just get through the event so everyone would disperse and she could find some corner to hide away in for the rest of the night. Her heart squeezed painfully. She'd been having such a good time dancing with Draco, and then he'd said she looked beautiful and she thought he might actually mean it…

Slowly, carefully, Draco raised one hand, lifting it toward her face and gently brushing one of her carefully styled curls to the side, tucking it behind her ear. His other hand moved to rest against her waist, drawing her gently closer to him so that they were no more than a breath apart.

Everything broke down into moments then: the heat of Draco's hand on her lower back, seeping through the floaty material of her gown; the angle of his cheekbones; the sureness with which he was moving, dipping his head toward her, his lips suddenly the centre of her vision. As he lowered his head, Hermione tried to relax, felt herself lift her face toward him, her eyelashes fluttering closed as—

—a soft brush of lips caressed her cheek, just to the side of her mouth, missing her lips completely.

Before she had time to feel surprised, or embarrassed, or even hurt that Draco hadn't been able to make himself go through with it despite everything, he moved his mouth so that his lips almost touched her ear, warm air tickling her neck as he murmured quietly enough that only she could hear: "If I'm ever going to kiss you, Granger, I'll do the thing properly; and without the benefit of an audience."

He pulled away then, dropping his arms from around her as he took a step back, and it took everything in her for Hermione not to slump against the wall, sliding down it to land in a pool of chiffon skirts on the marble floor. Her knees were shaking and she was sure the expression on her face wasn't something she wanted to display to the watching public. Dimly she became aware of hoots of laughter and catcalls from the watching crowd—the other students having been too far away to see that Draco hadn't actually properly kissed her—interspersed with shouts from familiar voices:

"What the hell?" That was Ron. Hermione would recognize his outraged shout anywhere.

"Let me at him! I'll hex him. I'll set his robes on fire!" Ginny. And Hermione was only half-sure that her best friend was talking about Blaise.

"Hermione, are you ok?" The last of the voices she'd know anywhere, through any crowd, was Harry, of course, and the concern in his voice brought the humiliated tears she'd been fighting back right to her eyes. Hermione blinked hard to keep them at bay. She did not want to cry here. Not in front of her friends, or this crowd, or that bastard Blaise, who, speaking of which, was currently eyeing Draco, who now stood glaring back at him, eyes burning with unspent anger.

She watched, still stunned from everything that had happened in the last two minutes, as Draco strode across the marble floor toward his former best mate, eyes only for him, and she wondered if he meant to punch him, or curse him, or just grab him by the collar and throw him bodily out of the house. Draco halted in front of Blaise, the pair of them almost of equal height, and they faced off. Blaise was smirking, though he looked a shade uncertain, and Hermione could see him tense when Draco spoke, though whatever he said was too low for her to overhear from where she stood.

Hermione stared out at the snickering crowd as the two boys conversed in low, heated voices. Why had she let herself be talked into this? She should have just walked away. She had two working legs, didn't she? And yet she'd just stood there and allowed herself to be pressured into being a public spectacle for the amusement of Hogwarts' senior class. She couldn't even blame the Slytherins for her embarrassment, as she could see many familiar faces scattered among those from that house who were looking back at her with sympathy or horror. Miguel was gaping; Sylvia looked outraged and was glaring at Blaise; and Phil looked torn between pulling out his wand and cursing Blaise himself or going after Draco—the later won out in the end, as Phil inserted himself between the boys just as Draco shoved Blaise, causing the other boy to stumble back. Miracle trouble-solver that he always seemed to be, Phil said something into Draco's ear and then somehow was maneuvering him through the crowd, away from a fight, and away from Hermione. She thought she saw Draco look back over his shoulder as Phil pushed him out the door, but she couldn't be sure…

One coherent thought remained in Hermione's head as she watched Draco walk away from her: she had to get out of that room. Out, and away from the staring eyes of her peers, their mocking laughter only half-stifled behind hands, looks that ran the range from amusement and envy to distain and anger on their faces. She managed to take two steps away from the wall before Blaise intercepted her, recovered from Draco's minor assault and looming up in front of her with a cruel smile on his lips.

"You look a little overheated there, Granger," he said with a condescending smirk. "You wanted to snog the prince of Slytherin, didn't you? Don't tell me your virginal sensitivities have you all flustered from one little kiss," Blaise continued, running his eyes over her and sending a shiver down Hermione's spine at the double meaning of that sentence from that particular boy. "Everyone's seen Weasley trying to eat your face on more than one occasion," Blaise sneered, stepping closer to her and ignoring both Harry and Miguel who moved to intercept him, though not quickly enough, "though Merlin knows we'd Scourgify our memories if it would do any good—so clearly you have some experience in these matters. Tell me," he leaned in close now, as if expecting her to confide in him. "What's going through that pretty little head of yours right now?"

Hermione could feel her face burning from Blaise's words. He'd obviously orchestrated the whole scene for maximum humiliation, and it had clearly played out exactly as he'd expected. Aside from the fact that Draco hadn't exactly kissed her—though it must have looked like he'd done so to anyone watching from where Blaise had been standing. Her heart squeezed despite the murmured comment Draco had whispered in her ear. She stared past Blaise to the far side of the ballroom where Draco and Phil had disappeared. What had Phil said? Why had Draco left?

She could feel tears pricking the backs of her eyes and fought back the lump in her throat as she glared at Blaise, but the only expression on his face was savage amusement. Dimly, Hermione could see her friends starting to close ranks on her: Harry, Ginny, Ron… even Sylvia and Miguel had started forward, though they looked unsure. Despite the good intentions of her friends, Hermione felt penned in, unable to bear the stares of the crowd. It was like a horrible nightmare.

Blaise's words raised a churning heat inside her, and Hermione warred within herself. Blaise terrified her, but she was surrounded by her friends, surely he could do little more than taunt her here. If she responded to him with any sort of violence she risked setting a match to the growing tension of the crowd, so, as much as she wanted to either pull her wand or go old-school and simply slap him so hard her hand would leave a permanent mark on his cheek, she chose the high road and did the only thing left to her: held her head high and marched past Blaise, the whispering students, and the curious onlookers who'd started to turn her way as she crossed the dance floor, barely looking at anyone and knocking shoulders with more than one person who didn't move out of her path fast enough.

She just had to make it to the end of the room, the hallway, through a set of French doors someone had left wide open to let in the evening breeze in an attempt to offset the heat of the crowded ballroom. When cool air finally hit Hermione's face, she realized that her cheeks were wet; she must have lost the battle against her tears somewhere along the way.

Gulping down night air as if it were the one thing that could hold back the misery clawing its way up her throat, Hermione glanced around to see where she'd ended up, hoping to find herself alone. As luck would have it, none of her friends had followed her, and she hadn't stumbled upon any students who'd snuck off for some private time, the patio she was on was deserted. Stretched out before her was a large flagstone terrace, big enough to hold a white-painted cast-iron dining set, and several planters containing miniature fir trees covered with never-melting magic snow, glittering with silver and blue fairy lights—no, they probably were actual fairies, Hermione reminded herself, no muggle nonsense was likely to be had at Malfoy Manor—and decorated with bright red bows at ascetically pleasing intervals. Hermione knew that she couldn't stay outside for too much longer or else someone was sure to come after her. Still, going back into the ballroom was far from something she relished doing.

xXx

"I'm fine, shove off!" Draco snarled, trying to shake off Phil's surprisingly strong grip as his friend nearly-manhandled him out of the ballroom.

"You're not fine," Phil replied tightly, his fingers around Draco's bicep not loosening in the slightest, despite the fact that he and Draco were far down the hallway on the opposite side of the ballroom now. "You looked three seconds away from killing Blaise Zabini, and I personally think that Granger wouldn't thank you for ripping your soul in half over that tosser."

"It would have been worth it," Draco growled, finally pulling free of Phil's hand and whirling around to look at him. The hallway they'd gone down was dark, only a few candles lit far and in-between along the wall sconces. They were in a servant's corridor that was mostly used by house elves. "And Granger is back there with him right now! She probably thinks I abandoned her!" This thought had only just presented itself to him and Draco felt his stomach twist with anxiety. Having Hermione think the whole mistletoe incident was some sort of twisted party joke was one thing—though he'd done his best to both ease her through it—giving her an out if she wanted, and then manipulating the event as best he could so that she wouldn't be forced to do anything she didn't want to—and settle the watching crowd at the same time so that hopefully everything would all blow over—if she now thought that his words were meaningless and empty because he'd just walked off, leaving her to figure out her own way out of the chaos…. he just couldn't bare it.

"Draco," Phil's voice was sharp, and Draco clamped his mouth shut over another loud protest, startled into silence at his normally genial friend's tone of voice.

"What?" he demanded, glaring at Phil and then feeling guilty for doing so. Hadn't he done the same when Phil had run after him out of the tavern that night? His friend always had the best of intentions and cloud clearly think more rationally than Draco could regarding events that involved Hermione. He heaved a heavy sigh and shoved a hand through his hair. "Sorry," he muttered, still trying to breath around the anger thudding in his chest. "Just… talk. Talk me down, mate, or I'm going to go back in there and set Zabini on fire."

Phil's lips quirked faintly. "As amusing as that might be, it would be a short-lived fight."

Draco frowned. "As much as I hate to admit anything that paints Zabini in a good light, he's always been a decent dueller. What makes you think he'd hold back now?"

Phil's smile grew, though his expression was still cold. "He'd be unable to cast at all in his present circumstances," he said calmly. "And something tells me you'd rather take him on full force."

Draco felt himself falter. "What?"

"Did you happen to see that blue light he tried to hide on his wrists?" Phil asked, almost looking amused at Draco's confusion. "And how he didn't go for his wand even when you got right in his face just then?"

Draco's frown deepened. He had noticed something glowing around Blaise's wrist at one point during their confrontation, particularly when Draco had shoved Blaise's shoulder with enough strength that he'd stumbled back. Yet, surprisingly, Blaise hadn't reached for his wand. He hadn't thought much about it at the time, probably because he'd been considering the trade-off on down and dirty muggle physical violence much more rewarding on balance than a duel in the moment. "Yeah, so?"

"He's wearing a Suppresser."

Draco blinked, confused. "A what?"

"It's basically magical handcuffs, if you want to go muggle about things," Phil replied. "They lock his magic. He can't so much as hold a wand, let alone perform any spells right now."

Draco stared at his friend, frowning deeper. "So when he was bragging about having bought off the Aurors…?"

Phil's smile turned mocking. "Talking big to distract everyone from the fact that all his family's galleons only managed to get him house arrest instead of Azkaban until his trial," he confirmed. "He wasn't lying when he said he was at your house because of his mother. I saw Mrs. Zabini talking to your mum in the hall earlier. Blaise is obviously tethered to her when he's out of their house, and she would never let him try and run off and force herself into hiding, so he's essentially a muggle for the time being."

Draco stood for a moment, processing everything Phil had just told him. Yes, Blaise wasn't in jail, but he was apparently no more dangerous than his wicked tongue just then—though, if Draco were honest with himself, Blaise's tongue had done more than enough damage for one night, even if he hadn't used it to cast any spells. Slowly, he felt a dangerous smile unfurl on his lips. "So, if I went back in there and cursed him, there would be nothing he could do about it?"

Phil shook his head at Draco, though a small grin was on his own face. "Correct, but I'd advise against it in the current circumstances." At Draco's frown, Phil nodded his head back in the direction of the ballroom. "Even if Munoz, Melville, Potter, Weasley, and anyone else who's heard what Zabini did to Granger haven't already done so, starting a fight in the middle of the party your family is clearly putting on to gain good grace with Wizarding Society—not that it's a bad nor unexpected thing," he added, breaking off at Draco's narrowed gaze, and Draco relented, knowing how true Phil's words really were, swallowing back what he'd been about to say, "it still would be better to take the high road at this time. We're Slytherins, Malfoy. We wait and we plan. Then we attack brutal and fast and without warning. Be patient. You have more important things to do right now."

Draco pulled in a deep breath, Phil was right. He could take care of Blaise another time. Right now he needed to go back into the ballroom and find Hermione. He would extricate her from whichever friends had descended upon her while Phil was busy preventing a Third Wizarding War in the middle of a two-hundred year old dance pavilion, and take her aside for a talk. That is, if she would still speak to him after the whole mistletoe debacle. Merlin, he thought to himself as he and Phil made their way back up the hall toward the ballroom, when he'd been looking down at Hermione just then it had taken everything in him not to bend down and claim her mouth. It had been the way she'd tilted her face up toward him, as if in surrender, her eyes closing and her body still tense even after he'd told her they could just leave, sod Blaise and his sadistic humour to the four winds. Despite her clear anxiety, she'd trusted him enough to just go through the motions. And because of that he hadn't be able to do it. If he ever kissed her—and doing so was becoming a more and more all-consuming thought within him—he wanted her to be willing, to want it as much as he did.

xXx

For a time, she walked back and forth along the empty terrace, watching the shadows dance along the sprawling ground, ornamental shrubs, large stone fountains, and something that looked like it might be a hedge maze, all gilded in the golden light seeping from the two-story windows that lined the ballroom's west-facing wall. Off to one side of the terrace, a second-floor balcony cast a long shadow out over the yard, and for a moment Hermione thought she saw someone standing in the darkness, looking out at the sky—but then she blinked and the figure was gone, if indeed there had ever been anyone there at all. Draco lived in a beautiful house; she wondered if he appreciated the magnificence of the grounds and architecture or if it was something he was so used to after growing up there that he didn't really notice it any more.

Feeling chilled now, Hermione turned back to the house, rubbing her hands over her arms to try and work some feeling back into them. As she reentered the hallway she'd recently fled down, Hermione hesitated, wondering if she dared go back to the ballroom. Deciding that she didn't dare, at least at present, she turned in the opposite direction and began to walk slowly down the hallway, deeper into the manor. The further she walked, the quieter it became, the music and laughter of the dancing Hogwarts students fading away, along with the warm candlelight that glowed in a multitude of candelabras, until the only thing lighting her path was the bright moonlight that poured in through the many tall windows lining the hall.

Malfoy Manor was by far the biggest house Hermione had ever been in—reminding her more of a hotel than a house. The grand front entrance hall was twice the size of the living room in Hermione's own house, and the sweeping staircase that led up to the second floor could give even Hogwarts a run for its money. Knowing that she should probably turn back, or at least find some place on the main level to sit, Hermione hesitated at the base of the staircase, her eyes tracing a path up the curving banister, over the pine garlands threaded with tiny white lights that wound their way from its base up to the second story-landing. Just as she had convinced herself to turn back, a flickering light caught her attention. Taking two or three hesitant steps up the stairs, Hermione craned her neck and was just able to make out the lights of a Christmas tree. Of course there had been a large and opulent tree holding pride of place in a corner of the ballroom, and this one was smaller, less grand; still, it was somehow more beautiful for it. Before she knew it, Hermione had gathered the voluminous skirts of her dress up in her hands and tip-toed up the long staircase, her scruples at sneaking around Malfoy Manor forgotten for the time being.

The top of the staircase opened onto a wide empty landing with long, dark hallways leading off to either side. In the centre of the landing opposite the stairs was a large bay window, its window seat piled with an array of cushions covered with silver and gold cloth. They seemed the sort of decoration that Hermione might have found in her grandmother's formal parlour, something that provided less of a physical comfort than an air of delicately artistic coldness. Nevertheless, she padded across the immaculate emerald carpet with its pattern of fancy silver Ms running the circuit of the room, and flopped down onto the bench, pulling a large silver pillow with rather gaudy tasseled corners onto her lap. Hermione's choice of seat served a second purpose, that being that the window was in back of the eight foot Christmas tree she'd glimpsed on her way up the stairs—thus hiding her from view to the casual observer.

For a time she just sat, hugging the pillow and staring out the window onto the grand estate that surrounded Malfoy Manor, her fingertips idly tracing the spot on her cheek where Draco's lips had brushed. The last time Hermione had been in this house, she'd been subjected to torture, terror, and the very real idea of dying. Somehow, after tonight, that almost felt like the lesser of the two evils. After a few minutes she began to feel restless, and rose from the window seat, setting the pillow back in its place behind her. She crossed back to the top of the stairs, trying to steel herself to return to the ballroom. However, just as she lifted her foot to take the first step down, the sound of snide laughter from a group of girls drifted down the hallway toward the entrance hall and Hermione jerked back from the stairs, darting instead down one of the long corridors with her skirts held aloft, like Cinderella fleeing the ball at midnight.

The hallway was long and lined with many doors, and large oil paintings graced the walls between rooms. A huge floor to ceiling window filled the wall at the end of the hall, pale moonlight spilling through the glass. Hermione pushed open a door at random and hurried into the dark room, closing the door behind herself and leaning against it, trying to stifle her breathing in case the girls were also on their way upstairs. After a minute or two in which only her pounding heart echoed in Hermione's ears, she allowed herself to believe that no one had followed her up to the second floor and moved away from the door, further into the room.

That she'd come into a bedroom was obvious at first sight: a huge four-poster bed was set against the wall on the right side of the room, draped in dark green hangings. The dark wood bedstead matched the other furniture in the large room: a tall dresser and armoire standing against opposite walls, and an elegantly carved green velvet sofa and matching wing chairs that were arranged in front of a marble fireplace opposite the bed. A low fire burned in the grate, casting a soft glow across the room. Hermione hesitated. A fire likely signalled that the room was in use, then again, there was little for personal touches to decorate the space, so perhaps the room had only been prepared in case the Malfoy's had overnight guests from their party that night. Moving further into the room, Hermione could see a set of French doors set into the wall opposite the hallway, one of them partially ajar, though the balcony beyond it looked empty.

The weight of the last half hour suddenly felt unbearable, and Hermione felt her feet carry her toward the bed. She'd just sit for a minute, hidden away in this half-forgotten space, and let the peaceful darkness sooth her. She neared the bed, surprised at its breadth when she got close enough to climb onto it—and climb she did, for the height of the mattress combined with the bed linens and pillows was rather taller than the average dorm bed at Hogwarts. She kicked off her shoes for better purchase before hauling her body up onto the feather-stuffed duvet, then shifted around, tucking her bare feet under her skirts to keep them warm—the fire was low, after all. Before she was really aware of it, she'd slid down onto the bed, curling into a small ball, as she stared into the dancing flames across the room.

Closing her eyes, Hermione felt herself slowly start to relax. Blaise had meant to humiliate her, but had he really? Sure, some of the crowd had laughed, but more of them had seemed to find Blaise's antics cheap and overall lame. He'd almost succeeded in starting a fight, but Phil had stopped that, and Hermione was sure that Harry would restrain himself—and Ron—for her sake. Ginny might be another story though… And though Blaise had continued his sadistic teasing after Draco had left the room, she hadn't risen either—though perhaps he'd gained a point for her running away in the end. Sighing softly, Hermione tried to rally herself. She couldn't hide here all night, she needed to go back downstairs and face her demons. Even if Blaise had left by the time she returned—or worse, was still there—she still needed to go back. If for nothing else then to see what had become of Draco.

Draco, who had all but told her he wanted to kiss her the next time they were alone together.

She squeezed her eyes shut as she recalled the way his warm breath had tickled her neck when he'd whispered to her, the faint, soft, brush of his lips against her skin, sending a shiver of anticipation thrilling through her before he had suddenly pulled back…

There was a creak just then, and the door to the room swung wide. Hermione's eyelashes fluttered as she jerked out of her reverie and pushed herself halfway into a sitting position, squinting dazedly across the dimly lit room to where a tall figure stood, backlit in the doorway. For a split second her heart leaped into her throat, such that when she managed to sputter, "W-what are you doing here?" her voice came out in a choked sort of frightened whisper.

xXx

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