Revert

by SUPRNTRAL LVR

Six months post-war, Malfoy is in serious trouble. He's on the run from the Ministry, Death Eaters, and a deadly curse which is eating him alive. When he hits rock bottom, a change in fortune lands him in 12 Grimmauld Place under the Ministry's custody - and forces Hermione to remember the secrets they've both kept for years. Dramione, Sick!Draco, flashbacks to Hogwarts

4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. Just the plot bunny.

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Intro: Six months post-war, Malfoy is in serious trouble. He's on the run from the Ministry, Death Eaters, and a deadly curse which is eating him alive. When he hits rock bottom, a change in fortune lands him in 12 Grimmauld Place under the Ministry's custody - and forces Hermione to remember the secrets they've both kept for years. Dramione, Sick!Draco, flashbacks to Hogwarts

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Chapter Four

Now

Harry didn't have much to do with the actual planning and rebuilding of Hogwarts, but Hermione knew that he liked visit. The castle and its sprawling grounds had been like a home to them all, but to him especially. They Apparated just outside of the gates and were greeted warmly by Hagrid, who was a daily volunteer at the building site along with the various architects who had become familiar faces. Harry and Hermione let Hagrid show them about the outskirts of the castle, nodding obediently as he pointed out the most recent work done, smiling as he pressed them to join him for a Butterbeer in the Three Broomsticks. But he was always busy, and eventually they were able to leave him to his work and wander off alone. They walked beside the shimmering lake and looked up at the hulking form of the castle, talking easily about nothing and everything.

By the time they decided to return to Grimmauld Place, she had almost completely forgotten about their latest problem.

Of course, the welcome break didn't last long. As soon as they made their way back into the entrance hall, stamping their feet to free the mud from their boots and shaking off their coats, she could hear the hubbub of angry voices from downstairs. She shared a worried glance with Harry, who had been practically glowing from the walk in the cool breeze only a moment ago, and who now looked thoroughly disgruntled.

"Well, better face the firing squad," he muttered, and made his way towards the stairs leading to the kitchen.

She followed. The voices got louder, and by the time they reached the bottom of the stairs, they could clearly hear Ron's voice from beyond the wooden door.

"… prick. I mean, Harry can't be serious. That wanker was swanning around up there like this place belongs to him!"

"Maybe we could ask if there's somewhere else he could stay?"

Neville's voice, hesitant and quiet. Harry looked physically pained at the conversation taking place, his hand resting on the door.

"We'll ask Hestia," someone else – Hannah, it sounded like – said. "We'll get him moved somewhere else."

"Shouldn't Harry decide that?" came Luna's dreamy voice. "After all, it's his house. Maybe you could move instead?"

Ron scoffed loudly. "For god's sake, Luna, we shouldn't have to move!"

Hermione looked pointedly at Harry, but he was still lingering by the door, clearly dreading going in. A moment ago she had been just as reluctant as he to get involved, but now the argument taking place was beginning to irk her patience. She was angry for him – angry at all of them for being so petulant. They couldn't seriously expect to treat the Order's headquarters as their personal summer camp. It wasn't as if Harry had been given a choice in the matter anyway. She sighed and pushed in front of him, shoving the door open. She stepped into the kitchen, Harry just behind her, and lifted her chin as several pairs of eyes turned on her.

"Morning," she said, her voice falsely bright.

The group seated at the long table muttered greetings quietly back – Neville, Luna, Pavarti, Hannah, Dean and Ron. All looking distinctly displeased. Hermione looked around at them all, and found her gaze resting on Ron, who had a face like thunder. She could feel it in the air – something had happened, some kind of altercation. It had barely been a couple of hours… she folded her arms, settling in for a fight.

"Something wrong?"

Ron snorted, getting up from the table and crossing to the sink to put his plate away.

"As if you couldn't figure it out."

He looked past her at Harry, who had quietly gone over to the fireplace and was leaning against the wall beside it, fiddling with an invisible speck on his sleeve.

"I had the joy of running into that evil arsehole this morning," Ron announced. "He's treating this place like its his house, Harry, it's not right."

Harry shrugged tightly. "We just have to get on with it for now. I know it's not ideal-"

"Not ideal?"

Hermione's heart sank. It was too late for a rational discussion – Ron's famous temper was already showing, and when he got like this it was impossible to reason with him. She took a deep breath and spoke up, doing her best fight Harry's corner.

"Look, Hestia has asked Harry a favour. It's not like he's going to tell her to get stuffed, is it?"

"This just doesn't feel safe," Hannah muttered. "I mean, how do we know he's really defected? This could all be a trap."

Hermione bristled. "He's not a Death Eater. Anymore."

Hannah looked back at her. "But how do you know?"

Hermione snatched her words back, feeling heat in her cheeks. For one horrible moment she thought she had been discovered, that her secret had already got out – but the conversation moved on around her, and she tried to force herself to relax. She had to stop being so jittery.

"You don't just stop being a Death Eater," Dean was saying quietly from across the room. "I mean, if he was going to gather information for them, isn't this the perfect place to come?"

"We have to trust Hestia," Harry said firmly. "She's got her eye on him."

"She's not even here," Ron snapped.

An uncomfortable silence descended onto the small group. Hermione looked around at them all – Neville, Hannah and Luna were all avoiding her gaze, looking at the tabletop. Ron and Dean, still standing at the sink with folded arms, looked as if they were about to announce a mutiny. Only Pavarti, sitting on the bench at the side of the room, looked torn. Harry ran his hand through his hair, and she could see his jaw working furiously as he tried to come up with something to say.

"Look, I know. I know. I've been up all night worrying about this. But…" he sighed heavily, looked around at the sea of faces before him. "But this isn't Hogwarts. This is the headquarters of the Order. And the Order needs to keep Malfoy here for now."

His words were met with stony silence. Hermione looked around resolutely, nodding her agreement with him, trying to lend him some support. She wished Ginny were here, but she must have gone to help George with the shop. Although she wasn't Malfoy's biggest fan either, she always managed to keep a level head, and was certainly far more popular than Hermione. Far better at swaying public opinion.

Ron was still scowling.

"I just… He's still got the Mark, you know? I saw it this morning. Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater." He turned his back on them, snatching up his plate and beginning to rinse it off. "And he's still a royal prick," he added sourly.

"Only for you, Weasel," a cool voice said smoothly from the doorway. "Consider yourself special."

Hermione felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Even as everyone else flinched around to look, she felt her body stiffen and found herself staring fiercely at her own hands. Her breath had frozen in her throat. She heard a short, humourless laugh, heard the kitchen door swing shut.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Am I interrupting something?"

Slow footsteps passed her by, moving just behind her, and still she couldn't make herself look up. She wanted to, so badly, but his voice was cold and filled with distaste, and she was suddenly standing in a corridor in Hogwarts once again. She could see his lip curling and his gaze narrowing in her minds eye. Harry cleared his throat, hastily filling the awkward silence that had descended on the group.

"Malfoy, hi… Are you, ah, hungry, or…?"

"Why? Going to cook me up some breakfast, Potter?"

She wanted nothing more than the ground to open up and swallow her. Of all the times she had imagined seeing him again, of all the times she had wished she could talk to him, she had not pictured it like this. She could almost feel Ron bristling furiously, knew he was clutching his plate, contemplating throwing it. Forcing herself to snap out of her stupor, she slowly raised her head.

And there he was.

He had reached the opposite end of the kitchen, Dean shifting out of his way. He looked impossibly tall, his white-blond hair a little longer than she remembered, but still pushed back flat against his head. He was hunched over a little – or maybe it was just her imagination. And then he turned slowly around and settled against the kitchen counter, and his silvery eyes met hers. Her heart lurched into her mouth and she gripped the table tightly, terrified to hold eye contact, terrified to look away. Harry was right – he looked sick. His face was thinner, greyer, with huge circles around slightly bloodshot eyes, betraying many sleepless nights. His unsmiling mouth was framed with pale lips which quirked anxiously at one corner. And yet still he stared regally down at them all, as if he had just been crowned king, and his eyes narrowed with the same icy venom from their school years. He looked away from her, focussing instead on Ron, and that old smirk chased across his face.

"Do go on, Weasel, don't let me stop you."

Ron was glowering at him as if he was hoping to set him on fire with his stare. "Why don't you fuck off, Malfoy?"

"Can't, I'm afraid," Draco replied calmly. "Why don't you? Or has that dingy little hovel of yours finally collapsed? Is that why you're living in Potter's kitchen?"

Ron drew his wand.

"Ron!" Harry darted forwards, moving quickly in between them. He shot Ron an imploring gaze, pushing his wand firmly down. "Don't, ok? He's just… being Malfoy."

"Hey, Weasel," Draco continued, folding his arms leisurely. "Make me a sandwich, would you?"

Ron wrenched free of Harry and pointed his wand again, his face bright red. For a moment, Hermione was sure he was going to curse Draco with everything he had. But then, after a tense moment, Ron threw off Harry's restraining hand, turned on his heel, and stormed out of the kitchen. She could hear his footsteps stomping across the entrance hall and the front door slam shut shortly afterwards.

The kitchen was quiet. Harry looked defeated, his face twisted in anger, his gaze trained on the ground. Draco looked slowly around at the room, his clear, silvery stare as cold as ever. Then he turned and opened the fridge door. She watched him silently as he inspected its contents and drew out a plate with a couple of sandwiches on it. Left overs from last night, she presumed. He shut the door and faced them, cocked his head.

"Can I have this?"

"No, actually," Hannah spoke up. "George was saving those for–"

"Great," he cut across her.

He looked at Harry, as if inviting him to argue, but Harry only shrugged hopelessly. He looked just as angry as Ron, but was being forced to rise above the bickering. Draco nodded, as if satisfied, and suddenly his silvery eyes were fixing on her once more.

"Problem, Granger?" he said quietly.

She stared at him, her lips parted, her voice shrivelled to nothing. He looked so terrible standing there, like a nightmareish version of his school year self. His frame was completely unforgiving, his sneer showing no trace of friendliness or care. From the hem of his jumper, she could see the tendrils of the Dark Mark poking out beneath his sleeve. She turned her face away, pressing her lips together, hating her own silence.

He moved, and she almost shuddered as he strode past her. She heard the door of the kitchen open and fall shut, heard his slow footsteps on the stairs. And, quite suddenly, she felt like sobbing. He hadn't looked at her like that since long ago in Hogwarts, like she was nothing at all.

Like she was just a Mudblood.

She dropped her head into her hands.

Across the kitchen, Harry sighed heavily and she heard a dull thud as he kicked the kitchen cabinets.

"Well, great," he muttered. "Well, at least it can't get any worse, right?"

The others didn't answer.

~O~

The plate of sandwiches sat abandoned on his chest of drawers, and he sat on the windowsill sucking desperately on the end of his cigarette, glaring at the dry slices of bread as if they had been the cause of everything that had gone wrong in his life. His appetite had vanished as soon as he had entered that kitchen.

There she had been, sitting at the table, surrounded by her friends. The situation was so horribly familiar that he hadn't been able to help reverting back to his old quips, and had even savagely enjoyed winding Weasel up. But she hadn't looked at him – she'd kept her eyes on the tabletop, as if she could think of nothing worse than looking him in the face. Until, that is, he turned to leave. Then she had looked at him. The expression on her face had cut him to the core. If he had been labouring under any misapprehension that she would be happy to see him, that they would be able to have some kind of conversation about everything that had happened, he had clearly been sorely mistaken. She had looked at him as if his very presence was crushing her.

He screwed his thumbs into his eyes, his cigarette still smoking steadily between his fingers. He had actually started packing his suitcase the second he had returned to his room, hell bent on getting the fuck out of Potter's house within the hour. But an unexpectedly bad twinge from his chest had forced him to sit down and concentrate on breathing, which had led him to a cigarette, which had led him to glowering meditation on just how shit the situation was.

Clearly she didn't want anything to do with him.

He couldn't blame her. She was obviously trying to start again, trying to get her life back on track after the war. And if she planned to have any friends, whatever they had enjoyed in the past would have to be surgically removed from her life. He had absolutely no place in her future. A thought which made him pretty fucking angry.

The room was small, and there was little else to do but eat and sleep. So, eventually, after forcing himself to eat half of one of the sandwiches, he curled up on his side and buried his head under the pillow.

He must have eventually fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew he was jolting awake and the back of his neck was prickling violently. He sat up, instantly feeling for his wand, looking around. The air felt suddenly thick and heavy, as if a thunderstorm were about to descend. It was almost too dense to breath – either that or his throat was closing up. He tried to breathe deeply but his heart was hammering hard in his chest, pulling him off focus. He clenched his teeth, tried to force himself to concentrate and then, with a great thrill of terror, he heard the unmistakable sound of a scaled body slipping across the floorboards beneath his bed.

He lurched up to his feet, backing up against the wall, bumping into the chest of drawers on the way. His wand drawn, he scanned the floor for any sight of the long, pale form and slitted eyes which still featured so heavily in his dreams. But seconds dragged past, turning into minutes, and the room was small enough for him to see that he was completely alone.

It was then that he realised the door to his room was open.

The door he had definitely shut hours earlier.

He remained rooted to the floor for a good few minutes, trying to figure out exactly what had woken him, what he had heard, staring at the fragment of corridor he could see through the gap in the door. He felt like he could be five years old again, terrified of the dark corners in his room, waiting for the monster he was sure was lurking within to pounce. But he wasn't five, and his parents definitely were not going to come in and assure him that monsters weren't real. Rather the contrary.

He forced himself to move.

The narrow staircase beyond his room was completely silent, but as he emerged into the corridor he heard it again – a low, ominous hiss that sent a physical shudder through him. Again he froze, again he scanned the floor, again he saw nothing. But by now his nerves were well and truly jangling, and he couldn't simply slip back into the room. He had no idea what time it was, but the house was almost completely in darkness. The only source of light was the moon shining through the window on the landing.

He made his way slowly down the stairs, holding his wand before him, aware of how clammy his palms were.

It was as he reached the bottom of the stairs that he began to smell burning. Burning hair, in particular. It was the kind of smell you didn't really forget once you had smelled it once. He tried to silence the shallow, hard breaths rushing in and out of his mouth, tried to focus on listening. He thought he might have heard the hissing sound again, this time from behind him, from the attic stairs – but by now he couldn't risk turning away. He could hear a distant crackling. The next flight of stairs were just in front of him, and he was suddenly certain that if he could just reach them he would know what was lurking there, just out of sight. His feet carried him forwards, his stomach a tight knot of fear, his bare feet making no noise on the thick carpeted floor. He reached the top of the next set of stairs and looked down.

There, halfway down the stairs, was the figure of a human. It was very calmly making its way downwards, its pace slow and leisurely. And it was on fire.

He didn't dare take his eyes off it, didn't dare move. The flames were relatively contained – they didn't seem to be harming the stairs, the walls, or leaving any singes on the ceiling. But they were there – he could hear them, he could feel the heat of them. The body they engulfed was little more than a blackened husk, tendrils of coarse hair still clinging to its head, the remains of some kind of dress sticking to its back. The thing reached the next landing and stopped. Draco clung to the banister like a lifeline, terrified to even blink. He wanted to shout for help, but his voice wouldn't work. Somehow, he didn't feel like shouting would do anything.

He swallowed hard, and then began to slowly make his way down the stairs after it. He kept close to the wall, as if that would some how give him some cover. But even as he reached the bottom of the stairs, it began to move again. Down another flight, its pace still slow and steady, the flames still licking up around it in a blaze that burned his retinas. He followed it to the first step and stopped short, his chest tight. His wound was beginning to throb hard, and he rubbed a hand across his chest distractedly, still staring at the figure. It moved almost gracefully, and in an odd way there was something familiar about it. Horrifying, but familiar. He stared at it, shifting his weight from foot to foot. The slithering, hissing sound came again and he jerked around, reluctant to take his eyes of the figure, but the old fear of that bloody snake sending tendrils of ice up his back. Nothing.

"Draco."

He flinched violently, looked down the stairs. The figure on fire had stopped halfway down the stairs and was looking up at him. Great red bleeding holes gaped where its eyes had once been. Its mouth opened wide in a terrible silent scream, the flames spitting and reaching high around it, and yet the voice that he heard was still gentle and calm.

"Draaaco…"

A grip suddenly closed around his wrist and he barely smothered a yelp, spinning around, his wand flying up. Just as abruptly, the heavy air seemed to clear. For the first time in what felt like hours, he was able to suck in a deep gulp of oxygen. He found himself panting, breathless, gripping his wand, his whole body trembling, his chest searing with pain – and there, pinned against the wall before him, her wide brown eyes trained on the glowing tip of his wand, was Hermione Granger.

One quick glance down the stairs told him everything he needed to know – the figure on fire was gone. It had never even been there. His knees felt weak and he reached for the banister, stuffing his wand into his pocket, letting out a shuddering sigh. He didn't know if he was relieved or terrified. He had had hallucinations before – small ones, brief ones – but never anything like that. Never anything that had seemed so fucking real…

He realised that Hermione was still standing there, her back flat against the wall, her face filled with that same quiet wariness that he had seen earlier. She was barefoot, wearing a large t-shirt – she must have been in bed. He felt a deep ache in him which had nothing to do with his wound. He sighed heavily.

"Granger," he muttered.

He wasn't wearing his jumper, hand his hand jumped automatically up to cover his Mark. It didn't matter – she knew what he was. But still, he rubbed it awkwardly as her gaze roved over him, as her eyebrows pulled together in a frown.

"What were you doing?"

Her voice was guarded. She sounded as if she had caught him trespassing in the corridors of Hogwarts after hours – completely cold, completely authoritative, completely dismissive. And he fixed his eyes on the floor, and considered the impossibility of telling her everything.

Then

Fifth Year

The sliding doors to their compartment suddenly opened, and she looked up only for her heart to stop in her chest. On the train, he had said in his last letter to her. And there he was.

He had gotten even taller over the summer. His face seemed to have matured too, although in what way she could not pinpoint. Either way, the sight of him instantly sent electricity over her skin and she felt herself sit up a little straighter. His silver-blue eyes caught at her for a moment, and she only realised then how much she had missed them. His mouth twisted upwards at one side and she felt herself smiling before she could stop herself.

"What?"

Harry's voice broke between them like an axe, and she remembered with a jolt where she was. Draco's eyes shifted lazily over to Harry, his face taking on that familiar, lounging smirk.

"Manners, Potter, or I'll have to give you detention," he said delicately, leaning against the doorframe. "You see I, unlike you, have been made a prefect, which means that I, unlike you, have the power to hand out punishments."

She almost laughed aloud at how much he was enjoying the moment. Last year he wouldn't be caught dead doing school work – now, because he had something over Harry, it had become a victory. It was too ridiculous. Harry stared back at him coldly, his gaze narrowing.

"Yeah, but you, unlike me, are a git, so get out and leave us alone," he said, his voice deadpan.

The others laughed along, and she saw the way Draco's shoulders stiffened in response. Some things never changed, apparently. Clearly he still wasn't able to take what he dished out. His tongue flicked across his lower lip, and it was so familiar that she couldn't hide a smile this time. His eyebrow lifted a millimetre, a tiny challenge.

"Tell me, how does it feel being second-best to Weasley, Potter?"

Harry's eyes burned like twin lasers and she intervened before any wands could be drawn.

"Shut up, Malfoy."

He looked at her, and she swore that for a moment that a real smile appeared.

"I seem to have touched a nerve," he said silkily. "Well – just watch yourself, Potter, because I'll be dogging your footsteps in case you step out of line."

Harry's hands curled into fists on his lap and Ron reached for his wand. She leapt to her feet and darted across the compartment, snatching hold of the sliding doors.

"Get out!" she said loudly, fixing her eyes on him.

He grinned, and for a moment he refused to move, and they were so close that she could see each individual eyelash. His hand snaked out and caught at her front jean pocket, just out of sight of the others.

"Back of the train," he breathed against her face.

And then he had pulled back and she had slammed the compartment doors shut, and he was leaving. She took a moment to compose herself before turning around, smiling at the others, folding her arms. Harry and Ron had relaxed, although Harry looked distinctly worried. She shook her head, casting her eyes skywards.

"Never mind him," she muttered. "It's just Malfoy."

And then they were chatting away, and Ron was saying how it didn't even matter about Prefects anyway because it would just mean more work and less free time, and eventually she was able to slip out of the compartment mumbling something about the toilet. She instantly made a beeline for the end of the train, hurrying past groups of students, darting around packs of chattering first and second years. She had to squeeze around the trolley which, she was grateful to see, was on its way to Ron and Harry's compartment – it should keep them busy for some time. She reached the final carriage, which was marked with a very clear 'No Entry' sign, and glanced around nervously, suddenly wondering what would happen if someone caught her. But the train guard was nowhere to be seen and the trolley was blocking her from sight. So she didn't let herself question it any further, laid her hand on the door, and pushed her way into the final carriage.

She emerged into the luggage cart, which she had never seen before. It was piled high with larger trunks, brooms, cauldrons, cages – anything that would not fit into the compartments. She made her way through the shuddering towers, finally catching sight of the red door at the end of the carriage. On it in large stamped letters were the words 'DANGER KEEP OUT'. Her stomach fluttered and she glanced over her shoulder, but still there was nobody in sight. She was no longer quite sure if Draco had meant to come this far – perhaps he had only meant the final compartment? But she hadn't seen his white-blond hair anywhere. She turned back to the door, resolving to at least check, and headed forwards determinedly. She flicked her wand upwards and the door flew open.

Beyond it was a small platform surrounded by a waist-high railing. The railway tracks spilled away beneath it, bushes clamouring in on either side, and hills beyond those. The smell of steam and the roar of the engine filled her up as she peered out. The wind tore at her hair, dragging its bushy locks into wild, frizzy clumps in seconds. And, as she stepped out into the fray, he was right there. Just as he had said he would be.

He stood on the platform, leaning back against the train carriage, a cigarette in his mouth. He looked as neat and clean as ever, his fine white-blond hair flickering gently in the fierce wind while hers billowed like a sail. He glanced over quickly as she stepped outside and his cool grey-blue eyes seemed to almost flash in the sunlight. There was a fraction of a second where they both hesitated, and she saw his arms move to fold across his chest, as if in defence of an attack, saw him pulling back into his shell in uncertainty. There wasn't time to wait. She had to know, and she had been playing out this moment in her mind for the past few months of the summer. She could not let herself pass it by.

Firmly, decisively, she stepped forwards and reached for him, planting both hands on his chest. As he stiffened in surprise at her sudden invasion of his personal space, she wove between the cigarette and him and pressed her lips against his.

Her heart seemed to judder to a halt in her chest and she felt her knees tremble. She had never – never – done anything so goddamn confident in her entire life. She was still soaring from the lift the Yule Ball the year before had given her, she was still able to find that new flicker of defiant sexuality which had flared up then. And yet, still, she felt like a newborn deer trying to run. His lips were frozen against hers, and she could taste the acrid smoke and then his warmth, and then her own stomach was hot and she felt her heart suddenly speed up once more. She broke away before she could ruin it and quickly retreated, surprised to find that she was smiling. The words dropped from her lips before she even knew what she was saying.

"It's so good to see you. I missed you."

He was staring at her, and for one horrible moment she thought she had misinterpreted the whole thing, that he was suddenly going to laugh and send a bat-bogey hex at her and walk away, and she would be the laughing stock of the Slytherin house for the entire year… and then, without warning, a broad grin appeared on his face like the sun from behind a cloud and he reached out for her. He grabbed her fingertips and pulled her back, flicking the cigarette away, and all at once he was close against her and she could feel his body against hers, arms wrapped around her waist, his nose inches from her own.

"There you are, Granger," he said softly.

And he kissed her again, and for the second time in the last minute she saw stars.

~O~

In many ways, it was the best year she ever spent at Hogwarts. Of course, she spent most of it lying to her closest friends and slipping away from Gryffindor Tower to meet him in any free periods or evenings, but still – she'd never had the chance to know someone as deeply as she knew him. The time they snatched away together was golden, even if it had to remain a complete secret.

He was good at skimming stones. In fact, it was there she'd had the idea for the Protean Charm, long before she had thought to use it for the DA. She had been searching for flat stones, teasing the worn pages of her Charms book between the thumb and forefinger of her other hand, watching his long limbs contort and lengthen as he span the pebbles across the surface of the lake. They had picked a more secluded spot around the side of the castle, but there was still a little sunlight making its way through the trees, and it dappled on his back and bounced off his white-blonde hair. He glanced over briefly – to see if she was watching, she knew. She smiled. And it was then that she had made the connection between the flat stone she was holding and the Protean Charm, sitting there in the book before her.

They had figured it out together, first only able to make crude, short words show up on the surface of the rocks, but after a while they had managed to perfect the charm. He was good at Charms, particularly when attempting to impress her. Eventually they managed it - when he held one and she held the other, they were able to send brief messages back and forth. Like texting, she thought fondly - only if she wasn't concentrating, the letters would sometimes come out garbled. It was nowhere near as discreet, nor as simple as the DA's coins would later be, but she was proud of the idea. Phones wouldn't work in Hogwarts, and without sending owls back and forth all day, there were few other methods of keeping in touch. But this, this was perfect. The rest of the day she kept her hand in her pocket, curled around the small pebble, a thrill racing through her whenever she felt it grow warm – a signal that he had sent a message for her to read.

For a long time after, the stone brought memories of the sunlight glancing off his hair and the graceful movement of his body as he tossed pebbles across the lake.

Unfortunately, it couldn't always be tranquil days by the lake and snatched moments in the back of the library. There were other issues to tackle - Umbridge, Harry's prophetic dreams, the continued uncertainty about Voldemort's plans. And yet, strangely, it was Quidditch which caused the most trouble.

Before the Gryffindor v. Slytherin match, she found herself taking an interest in the sport for the first time. Probably because she had never seen him so nervous before. In the stolen moments they had when she could escape from the others he was distanced and thoughtful, and she caught him doodling quidditch game plans in the corners of his homework every now and then when he thought she was busy with her own. And yet, whenever she broached the subject, he would only smirk and shake his head.

"The Gryffindor team has just taken on a massive liability with Weasley," he would say. "There's no way they'll win with him fucking everything up."

As harsh as his words were, she secretly agreed. Ron had failed miserably at every opportunity so far, but she couldn't bring herself to say it. She tried to encourage him, but she could see with every passing day the concern growing in Harry's panicked eyes. When she did find a moment to drop by the pitches as they practised, she was continually met with the rest of the team roaring at Ron to just relax, just grab the ball, to just do anything. She dreaded the match, knowing that the Gryffindor team was going to be crestfallen when they lost. Draco was anxious too, though – as the match day drew closer, he began to spend more of his time on the field practising with the others and he began to taunt Ron and the others more than ever. She didn't think it was coincidence.

She prepared to comfort the others on their loss.

Except then, out of the blue, Gryffindor won.

She fought her way down to the pitch, giddy with disbelief, swept up in the rest of the Gryffnidors who were tearing down the stairs to celebrate. The stands seemed to have erupted with a roar of victory and she could see Harry, holding the snitch above his head, his face split in a massive grin. She felt her own lips curving into a large smile – it was rare that Harry had the opportunity to be that relaxed, that happy. Especially with everything happening to him now. Ron was thrilled too, fists held aloft, bounding up and down with Fred and George. And yet, even as she congratulated Angelina, she caught sight of the Slytherin team.

The mood was distinctly less positive there. They stood in a rough group, glaring at the other team. A couple of them had already started to trudge back towards the changing rooms. Montague, the huge, shaven-headed captain was stabbing a finger at Draco, who was streaked with mud and who looked extremely angry. His face was whiter than usual and his lips were pressed together in a thin, hard line. He said something short and sharp, which made Montague's face redden, and then turned his back on the rest of the team. He was far away from her, and in the fray he was closer to Harry and the others than she… and as his eyes settled on them, she knew at once what was going to happen.

With a thrill of fear, she began to push through the crowd. It was difficult – everyone was screaming and leaping about in joy, and all trying to get to Harry and the others. She was shoved aside time and again as she tried to slip through. Draco's shrill voice reached her ears, high and tight with simmering rage.

"Saved Weasley's neck, haven't you?" he was saying loudly. "I've never seen a worse Keeper, but then, he was born in a bin… did you like my lyrics, Potter?"

Of course, she got there too late to stop the inevitable confrontation which exploded between he, Harry and George. By the time she got there, his hair was dishevelled and his lip had been split. Madam Hooch was already marching Harry and George away. Draco, wiping blood from his face with his sleeve, his face still burning with white hot rage, caught sight of her through the crowd. He stared at her for a moment, his lips half open as if about to speak. Then he scowled and turned away, stalking off through the mud.

She watched him go, unable to follow, the roar of the Gryffindor team filling her ears.

That night even the mood among the victorious team was sombre. They had won, but as Harry reported he, Fred and George had all lost their places on the team. She kept her hand in her pocket, her fingers coiled around her Protean Charm stone, as the others sat about the Common room, the humour low. She had tried sending a message earlier, but with no luck. And it wasn't until the others were beginning to disappear off to their dorms that her pocket grew warm. She turned hurriedly into the corner, peeking down at her fist. She just made out the words.

Astronomy Tower.

She hesitated. Umbridge was already targeting them – she didn't want to get caught sneaking around the castle after curfew and put them all in more trouble. But after the terrible match, she couldn't bear to turn him down. She had to make sure he was alright. Her mind kept snagging on the way Montague had pointed at him and snapped something, and she could guess that the atmosphere in the Slytherin Common room must be similarly depressed. Although at least they could celebrate the Gryffindor team being broken up in the aftermath of the fight.

After some consideration, she wandered over to the portrait entrance and pretended to be looking around for something on the floor. She glanced up a couple of times, but most of the team had retired by now. Harry, Ron and Ginny were still up and deep in conversation with a couple of other Gryffindors, exchanging rumours about Umbridge and trying to figure out how to get them back onto the team. She took a deep breath and then pulled the portrait open and slipped out into the corridor. She paused outside for a moment, listening hard, trying to figure out if they had spotted her or not. But no one followed her, and she breathed a sigh of relief and headed for the Astronomy Tower, glancing around huntedly as she went.

He was sitting there alone. He wore a black jumper and black jeans – the dark clothes made his hair shine in the darkness like a second moon. He sat on the very edge of the platform, leaning on the railings, his legs dangling over the side. As she ascended the stairs towards him the smell of cigarette smoke filled her nose and her eyes strayed to the bottle sitting next to him, almost empty. She almost hesitated to approach him, but she shook herself and made her way forwards. He didn't look up as she settled down on the floor beside him.

"Hi."

He took a long drag on his cigarette, his eyes fixed on the distant treetops of the forbidden forest. His skin showed no trace of the earlier confrontation with Harry and George - Madam Pomfrey must have seen to him earlier. She sighed and reached out, placing her hand cautiously on his thigh.

"Are you ok?"

He huffed a cold, hard laugh and blew a plume of smoke out into the air. She felt something inside her cringe and fell silent for a few moments, tried to think of something useful to say.

"I'm sorry about the game."

"Yeah." His icy gaze was focused on the stars in the distance, a furious smile twisting his lips. "I bet Weasley's thrilled."

She decided to ignore that. "Were the others angry?"

"Of course."

She lifted her hand and ran it carefully through his fine blonde hair and over his neck. Despite his rigid fury, he leaned into her slightly. She let her forehead rest against his, grateful for the emotion he was finally lending her. He held the contact for a moment, but then straightened up and took another large swig from the bottle. He offered it to her, but she shook her head with a small smile.

"Aren't you supposed to be celebrating?" he sniggered.

She shrugged, uncertain of what to say. She knew he wouldn't want her to explain away what had happened, or placate him by insisting that Quidditch didn't matter. She hesitated, and then did the only thing she could think of - she leaned forwards and kissed his cheek cautiously. For a few seconds he just sat there, still glaring at the night sky, his face still empty, as if a brick wall had been put in place behind his eyes. Just as she began to think that she had made the wrong move, he suddenly turned and met her lips with his own, one hand moving behind her head to pull her against him. He tasted like firewhiskey, and he was distinctly more forceful than usual. She faltered, and then realised with a lurch of surprise that his other hand had moved downwards and was pulling at the zipper on her jeans.

"Wait," she mumbled against his lips, reaching down to grab his wrist. "Wait, Draco –"

"Don't worry, it's fine."

"No, I don't -"

"It's fine."

His hand pulled at her jeans, slipped down towards her pants, and she suddenly felt anxiety break out in her chest. She shoved him hard in the shoulders, finally forcing him to let go, and scrambled to her feet. When he looked up at her his eyes were narrowed in hard confusion, as if she had just slapped him. She buttoned up her jeans again and took a deep breath.

"Just… don't."

"Why not?" he demanded, still staring at her as if she had just laid an egg. "Seriously, why the fuck not?"

"I just…" Her heart was beating hard in her throat and she didn't like the way he was looking at her. Confrontational. She swallowed hard. "I'm just not ready. For that. Ok?"

A cold sneer spread over his face. "Not ready? Jesus Christ, Granger, we've been tiptoeing around this for months – how much longer are you going to need?"

He pushed himself up to his feet, swaying slightly, snatching up the bottle as he went. His eyes had turned hard and cold as twin black pebbles.

"What, so I lose the game and now you can't be fucked, is that it? Got the hots for Weasley now, have you?"

Her mouth fell open in disbelief. She shook her head, trying to find the words to explain.

"It has nothing to do with that, for god's sake! I don't care about Quidditch. Why are you being like this?"

"Why are you being like this?"

"I just… I haven't been with anyone like that yet. And I'm not ready. I'm just…I'm just not."

He stared at her, and suddenly the horror that what she had just said would mean complete and utter rejection was overwhelming. She span around, tears leaping to her eyes, and made for the steps, ready to simply sprint back to the Gryffindor Tower and lock herself in her Prefect's room for a week. But his hands caught at her from behind before she could get too far. She struggled but his arms wrapped around her tightly, holding her in place.

"Stop it – Draco, stop it!"

"Wait, please, wait…"

His voice was different, wobbly, and it stopped her from trying to get free. As she grew still he released her, moving gingerly, as if expecting her to suddenly disappear into thin air. She turned slowly, folding her arms across her chest, ready to tell him flatly that she was just going back to the Common Room – but then, to her surprise, he was suddenly on his knees in front of her. His arms snaked around her knees and held on tightly, his head buried in her stomach. She nearly fell over, thrown off balance by his tight grip.

"Draco, what…?"

"Mm'sry."

"What?"

He pulled away enough to look up at her. His face was finally soft again, and despite the drunken glaze in his eyes, he at last looked more like himself. His silvery grey eyes stared up at her, imploringly, and she had a sense that he was letting her in again.

"Sorry," he said again, a little more clearly. "That was stupid. I'm drunk, and I'm fucking stupid… Of course you don't want to fuck in the Astronomy Tower… Please don't leave, I just… I'm really sorry."

He looked so dejected that she couldn't help it – she laughed. Shock and hurt rushed across his face, and she awkwardly peeled his arms off her legs and made her way down to the floor to kneel opposite him. She took his face in her hands, smirking.

"You are stupid," she said. "And drunk."

"I didn't know," he muttered. "I'm sorry for thinking... for trying to…"

He looked so upset – and genuinely quite ashamed - that she let them scrub out the last five minutes and leaned forwards, placing a firm kiss on his lips.

"If only you'd won the match," she said wistfully. "Then I most definitely would have had sex with you."

She laughed, and a reluctant smile made its way across his face. She pulled him down onto the floor of the Astronomy Tower and kissed him again, let his arms encircle her. He moved carefully now, keeping his hands above her waist like a scared teenager at a school dance. And, for some reason, the more she teased him, the more he seemed to relax. Until they were lying there, wrapped around each other, their laughter tumbling out into the night air, anything and everything else forgotten.

~O~

A couple of months later she was trotting down the stairs after Harry and Ron, having just finished another unbearable Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson. She was vaguely aware of the boys discussing Umbridge in hushed tones as she shoved her books back into her bag. When she looked up, blowing her hair out of her face as they reached the bottom of the stairs, she caught sight of a familiar flash of blonde hair moving in the opposite direction to them. She tucked a strand of hair back behind her ear, pretending to be glancing up at the window across the corridor. For a fleeting moment she saw a grin, saw pale grey-blue eyes.

"Look out, Potty, there's a Dementor behind you!"

Ahead of her Harry and Ron scowled, marching coldly on. Draco sneered back at them before reaching Hermione, ducking his head for the briefest of moments.

"Follow me. Quick."

His whispered words sent tingles down her neck. But Transfiguration would start in five minutes, and she hated being late… She shot him a frustrated glance but he only jerked his head before striding on past them, his hands deep in his pockets. Ignoring the uniform codes, as always, he had left his cloak off and was wearing only his trousers, shirt and jumper. Which gave her a fabulous glimpse of his arse as he walked away.

And so, of course, it was decided.

"Hermione? Hurry up!"

She had slowed to a halt, and hastily pawed through her bag a couple of times. Harry and Ron were waiting up ahead. She waved them on, calling up the corridor.

"Go ahead, I forgot one of my books. I have to get it!"

"You forgot one of your books?" Ron repeated incredulously as she span around and hurried back. "Hermione, they're like your children…"

She ignored him, trotting back the way they had come and rounding the corner after Draco. Students were beginning to filter out of the corridors now, getting on to their next class, and she felt a small thrill of panic – if she was late, she would risk missing the lesson objectives, and she found those extremely useful when revising later. Whatever Draco wanted had better be important. She couldn't even see him now. She stopped, turning right around in a circle in search of his white-blonde hair, but with no luck. Until, at least, the classroom door behind her clicked open and a hand fastened around her wrist, pulling her sharply backwards.

She staggered back into the room, only missing a nearby desk because he pulled her into himself rather than letting her trip. The door slammed shut behind them, plunging them into darkness, and she was abruptly aware of his body pressed up against hers, of his hands around her waist, of the heat of his lips coming down upon her own. It swept her away for a good few moments before she remembered that she was supposed to be making her way to the other end of the castle. She pulled away, unable to suppress a bewildered giggle.

"Draco, what… I'm going to be late! I don't have time right now…"

His arm moved and the two candles nearest to them lit up, offering them a little flickering view of their surroundings. The curtains had been drawn by the last class for some reason, which explained the lack of daylight. They were standing between the desks, some distance from the door, and he was directly in front of her. A smug grin was fixed on his face. For some reason, he seemed to be immensely proud of himself.

"I wanted to see you."

"But now? I mean, I really have to go–"

"I know," he broke in, sweeping his thumb across her cheek and tucking her hair back behind her ear where it had come loose. "I know. But I just found out I have to go back for the Christmas holidays tomorrow morning."

"Tomorrow morning!" she cried, dismayed. "But term doesn't end for another two days… And Angelina and Luna are going back tomorrow too, and they're planning a party in the Common Room tonight to say goodbye, and I couldn't possibly get out of it…"

"I know," he repeated as she trailed off unhappily. "That's why I thought I'd grab you now. Because I have a present for you."

"What?"

"Well, it is Christmas. Almost."

She watched with steadily widening eyes as he stepped away to his bag, which lay on a nearby table, and drew out a shiny, thin black box. A silver ribbon was tied around it in a neat bow. She took it when he held it out, almost speechless.

"But I didn't get you anything!" she protested after she found her voice. "I didn't know you were getting me something."

"Well, then I'd better take it back," he said mockingly, holding out his hand for it. He laughed out loud when she tried to hand it to him, pushing it back towards her. "For god's sake, Hermione, just open it."

"Now?" she turned it over. "We usually wait until Christmas day in my family."

"I want to see your reaction." He cocked his head. "Please?"

She stroked the bow, admiring its neat symmetry, and then carefully tugged it free. She opened the box and caught her breath, staring down at the dainty, clear jewel lying on the velvet interior.

"Draco… Draco!"

"Mmh?"

She lifted her round eyes to him, her mouth open. "This is… God…"

He stepped up to her once more, taking the box from her and lifting out the delicate, tiny chain. It was extremely simple in design, and yet it took her breath away. The chain was long and yet thin, and the single crystal at the end sparkled brightly as it caught the light. He held it up and she obediently pulled her hair out of the way – which took some effort – to allow him to place it around her neck. He fastened the clasp and held her by the shoulders to look at it, smiling proudly.

"Beautiful," he said, giving her a short kiss on the forehead. "The necklace ain't bad either."

She took it in her fingers, feeling its small points and fine edges. "Draco, this is… this is really…"

"So you like it?"

She nodded helplessly, her lips curving into a huge smile. He bent his head to rest his forehead against hers, and she felt as if she were being pleasantly surrounded by him. She linked her arms around his neck, enjoying his height, his frame, the soft hint of his scent.

"I'll miss you," she said suddenly, remembering that he was leaving. "Will you write to me?"

"Of course not," he said lightly. "You'll have to write to me."

She smirked and pressed her lips against his cheek, his jaw, his neck. For a moment she was able to simply be, simply hold him and know that this was what happiness felt like. Just being with him. Just being able to love him. She opened her mouth, the words about to tumble free, but then he lifted his head and broke the moment.

"I thought you were late?"

She gasped, snatching up her bag from her feet. "Transfiguration! McGonagall's going to kill me!"

She turned towards the door and then hastily span back to him, pressing against his lips in a hard, long, final kiss.

"I'll miss you."

His arms remained around her for a moment before letting her go, as if savouring it. For once, his voice was very soft. "You, too."

And then she was diving out of the door and running for the other end of the castle, tucking the necklace carefully under her shirt as she went, her heart full and her blood buzzing. And even though she was five minutes late, she couldn't help the smile fixed on her face.

It was only a little while later, when she was sitting in Transfiguration and realised that she hadn't written a single thing, that she understood something. She missed that closeness. She liked that closeness. It didn't make her nervous anymore – instead, somehow, it made her feel like she was coming home. And she didn't want him to go tomorrow, and she wanted nothing more than to curl up against him and never let go…

"Miss Granger?"

She started, looked up sharply. McGonagall was waiting, frowning at her through her glasses. Hermione scrambled desperately for what had just been said, and found that for once in her life she had absolutely, really no idea…

"Are you alright, Miss Granger?"

And there it was. Her green light. She wet her lips hesitantly, and then slowly closed her notebook and laid down her quill. McGonagall had never looked so shocked.

"I'm not feeling well, Professor," she said, inserting a slight tremble into her voice. She never had been a good actress, but she must have picked up more from Draco than she thought – the lie slid off her tongue like quicksilver. "I feel sick, actually, and… may I be excused?"

McGonagall nodded, gesturing to the door. She surged up from the table, piling her books into her bag, snatching up her wand, and turning on her heel. She was already running through the lesson objectives in her head – she would be able to catch up in the library the next morning with no trouble at all. She caught Ron and Harry's concerned gazes as she passed, shot them what she hoped was a convincingly pathetic smile, and then she was out in the corridor. She looked at her watch. Dinner would be starting in half an hour, but she wasn't hungry. Instead she ran straight to Gryffindor tower and tore a piece of parchment from her bag. She scribbled a hasty note to Angelina and Luna.

Sorry – not feeling well. Taking some medicine and going to bed. Really sorry. Wake me up in the morning to say goodbye! – Hermione

She read it through before tossing it down on the main table in front of the fire. Then her feet had carried her up to her room and she was closing the door behind her, manifesting a quick 'Do Not Disturb' sign to hang on it. She shut it tight behind her, grateful that she had a Prefect room, and therefore did not have to share with anyone. She looked around, taking in the piles of clothes and books and parchment… she had some work to do. But first – she took the stone from her pocket and rubbed her thumb over it, feeling the familiar flood of warmth through her hand.

~O~

He received the message just as he was arriving back at the Slytherin common rooms before dinner. It was very short.

Come to my room at eight. Don't be late.

He blinked at the fiery words rushing across the stone, trying to decipher what exactly that meant. It sounded very abrupt. Was she angry? The 'don't be late' implied she was anxious to see him, but the full stops felt like glaring dark accusatory eyes. He slipped the stone back into his pocket, frowning. But then Zabini was pushing into his room and calling him out for dinner, and he couldn't think quickly enough to come up with an excuse.

As soon as he sat down at the Slytherin table he knew she wasn't in the Great Hall. He looked anyway, flicking his eyes across the various ginger heads on the Gryffindor table. But her mane of bushy hair was nowhere to be seen, and he was slowly understanding that something must be wrong. Why else would she have skipped dinner and sent him a strange message with no explanation? He pulled their last encounter back through his head, but she had seemed perfectly happy. Better, even – she had said she would miss him, and her voice had been brimming with emotion and sincerity. And he had headed off to his next class feeling as if he were on cloud nine. And now, somehow, he had ruined it.

He picked at his food for a little while before excusing himself and striding back to the dungeons. He returned to his private room and retrieved the stone from his pocket, but there had been no further message. He hadn't even replied to the last. He considered it for a while, but he didn't know what to say. Instead, he tried to busy himself and set about packing away his things into his trunk. He wasn't sure how long whatever she was planning would take, and he was leaving early the next morning. He latched his case closed four times before having to open it again and pack bits and pieces he had forgotten in his distraction. He glanced at his watch, but it was barely even past seven. He had a while to wait.

The hands on his watch crawled around infinitely slowly. By the time it was ten-to, he was almost trembling and his mouth was dry. He locked his door with a tap of his wand and pulled a jumper on, eyeing the snow flurrying past his window. He briefly considered just slipping past Filch and whoever else was patrolling the corridors, but then thought better of it. He retrieved his broom from its case under his bed and pushed his window open. It was an awkward scramble to clamber up onto the windowsill, manoeuvre the broom between his legs and then kick off – his launch was unsteady and he narrowly avoided plunging downwards like a falling rock. But the rush of cool air calmed the sickness in his gut somewhat – he curved in a long arc around the castle, drawing high up into the sky, enjoying the snow peppering his skin. Then he turned and circled around to the Gryffindor tower. It took him some time to find her window – there were just too many towers in this damn school. But she had left it open, just as she always did, and there was no way that anyone else fancied a chill breeze in their room. He ducked under the Common Room window – the party, apparently, was in full swing if the noise and movement inside was anything to go by – and floated up to her window. He took a moment to steady his nerves – god, what was wrong with him? – before rapping his knuckles against the window.

He heard her voice answer and laid his palm flat against the cold glass, pushing carefully inwards. When there were no shouts of alarm at his presence, he nudged his broom closer and disembarked clumsily through the window. He clambered down into the room, the window swinging shut behind him, broom clutched in one hand. And there he stopped.

The room was very dark. The only light was the gentle flickering of candles, candles which floated in the air, bobbing softly. The red canopies above the beds glowed in the firelight, the dark mahogany headboard gleaming. It was like stepping into a quiet dream, warm and comforting, the great stone walls wrapped securely around them. She was standing beside her bed, which had been cleared of all her scraps of parchment and piles of books. She stepped forwards to greet him, her bare feet making no sound on the floor, her dressing gown swaying around her. Her hair was loose and bushy, catching the firelight like live wires, making her face seem impossibly small. Her eyes seemed even wider and larger than usual, lit by the soft flames, staring at him almost imploringly. She stood before him, her mouth in a serious line, and the air seemed to tremble with her nervousness.

"Hi."

"Hi," he replied, leaning his broom against the wall.

Whatever he had been expecting, it had not been this. He looked around, taking it all in once more, before facing her again. She looked nervous, almost scared, as if standing on the brink of a cliff. He stepped towards her, pulling off his thick jumper and tossing it on the ground, shaking the snow from his hair. It was considerably warmer in the room than outside.

"What's all this?" he said, trying to sound casual.

She lifted her chin bravely. Something about this was a leap of faith for her. He could see it in every line of her body, every flicker in her expression.

"I was thinking," she said, as if reading a speech from a book, "why I care so much when you fight with Harry and Ron. And I was thinking about why it makes me so angry when you don't hear what I'm saying sometimes, because you're really stubborn, and proud. And I was thinking..." She hesitated, raised her eyes to his face. Her gaze was piercing. "... I think it's because I care about you. I think it's because I look at you and ... And everything is different."

He blinked at her. Her seriousness was making him nervous. And he was pretty sure that most of the things she had just said were summarising his major flaws. He forced his lips to a smile, trying to read her dark-eyed gaze.

"Oh," he managed lamely.

She took a deep breath. "Draco, you mean something to me. Something that I don't even know how to..."

Her face crumpled, and he was suddenly terrified she was about to start crying. He lurched forwards and was beside her in two strides, his arms encircling her small shoulders. She wrapped her arms around his waist, holding on tightly, and her smell rushed into his face. He could feel a tension in her, an uncertainty. She took a few moments before speaking again.

"It's this," she murmured into his shoulder. "It's this. Don't you feel it?"

And he did. When she was nestled against him like this, he felt it. He felt like something in his soul was reverberating with hers. But he didn't know how to say those things out loud. Instead he nodded against her hair, running his hands over her back.

"Yeah."

She sighed and he felt her exhale move through him like a ghost. She drew back suddenly, looking up at him, as if searching for something.

"Draco," she said, and then stopped.

He brushed his fingertips over her cheeks, traced her lips. She leant into him as he followed the line of her jaw, cradled the back of her head. Something in the pit of his stomach was pulsing steadily. He put his lips to her forehead, tried to read the thoughts quivering there.

"Hermione," he said, whispering against her skin, "are you alright?"

She nodded. Then, suddenly, she had moved and her lips were pressed against his. His gut flipped over pleasantly and tingles spread across his skin as he traced her lower lip with his tongue, as her teeth grazed against his flesh. His blood was beginning to pound, and he broke away quickly before he could get carried away, breathless. He wasn't used to reacting so quickly. He blamed the candlelight. Her eyes flitted from his mouth to his gaze, her teeth closed over her own lip. And then, suddenly, she had pulled at the tie of her dressing gown and it was pooling about her feet. He didn't dare break her gaze. He could not even move, hands still hovering just above her waist where he had moved out of the way. She stared back at him tremulously, as if waiting for rejection, her lips pressed tightly together. Then, when he did not move, she put her hands over his own and brought him down on the warm, smooth skin of her hips.

She kissed him again but he broke free, pulling himself back while he still could. He was in utter awe of her sudden confidence, and he knew that if she carried on as she was he soon wouldn't be able to keep himself in check. He caught her face in his hands, staring into her, hardly daring to breathe to disturb the air between them.

"Are you sure?" he managed, somewhat hoarsely.

She met his gaze, her eyes fiercely resolute, and nodded. She held him there for a moment, as if letting something pass between them that could not be vocalised. And then she was diving into his lips again, the heat of her mouth travelling across his whole body, and her hands were pulling at his collar with decisive strength. He fumbled to help her, dragging at his buttons, pulling her against him with every spare second. His shirt was thrown to the floor and she pulled at him until the bed met the back of her knees and they tumbled clumsily onto it. His hands ran down over her breasts, her sides, her hips... He heard himself moan as her hands went to his belt.

"Are you sure?" He gasped again desperately.

"Shut up," she breathed against his ear.

Her hand closed around his length. And then his skin was reeling with gooseflesh and he was rock hard in her grip, and he could barely even find time to breathe as he rained kisses down over her. Her touch was cautious, exploratory, moving up and down tortuously slowly. He knew he was breathing raggedly, his whole body screaming out for her. He dropped his lips to her neck, laid a trail of kisses downwards. Somehow his trousers came off and he was lying over her, his weight on his elbows, and she was dragging at his hips and her nails were digging into his back... He was breathless and hot and the candles were a thousand tiny stars floating in the air around them.

Nothing else existed.

~O~

Afterwards they lay together under the thick blankets heaped over her bed. She lay on his arm, held against his side, and she listened to the rapid pounding of his heart and felt the slightly damp heat of his skin. He was breathing hard, his face vacant, still showing a hint of the shock that had descended over him when he had realised what she was doing. She kissed his collarbone lightly and he turned his head towards her.

"Did it hurt?"

She considered the question. "Yes," she said eventually, and he tensed at once. She hurried to explain. "It's ok. It hurt a little but only at first. It was... Beautiful."

Her cheeks flushed in embarrassment, but he turned towards her, and he wasn't laughing. He pressed his forehead against hers, his nose brushing against her own, his breath shuddering over her face.

"Yeah," he said softly.

She huddled deeper under the blanket, tracing the lines on his chest. His whole body was the same marble white tone, as if cut from paper. Beside him her own skin was a stark golden contrast. He shifted restlessly, and then suddenly spoke in a great rush.

"I love you."

She kept her gaze on her own fingers, going over the words again in her head. She was reminded once more of how insane the whole situation was. How crazy it was that he had just said that, and how her stomach had exploded into butterflies in response. He let out a breath, his hands closing around her.

"I just... I needed to tell you. Because it's not just sex. This is different. And ... And I love you."

He stopped, allowing silence to break over them as his words echoed in her head. She felt that he was waiting, but she couldn't speak. Not until she was sure. She raised herself her elbow and looked at him carefully, in the way she approached the huge old tomes in the library. He looked scared somehow. His lips quirked slightly as he returned her gaze, his silvery blue eyes flicking away and back uncertainly. His hair had come out of its slick style and she reached out to push it back gently. And then, as her fingers travelled down over his temple, cheek, jaw, neck, as she felt his pulse fluttering against her fingers, she knew.

"I love you," she said quietly.

He held her gaze. "Say it again."

She let out a laugh, a weightlessness soaring through her. A wide smile had spread over her face, and she knew that her two front teeth would be hideously pronounced - even after the shrinking - but for once she didn't care. She smiled hugely, fully, unashamedly.

"I love you, Draco Malfoy."

He lurched forwards and wrestled her onto her back, ignoring her squeals of glee.

"What, you had to think about it?" He said in mock anger, unable to keep the joy from his voice.

"No!"

"You only paused about a decade there..."

"I didn't!"

She tried to wrestle him off as he pinned her down on the bed, his face inches from her own. He was grinning in such an un-Malfoy-like fashion. His whole face was transformed when he smiled, like a human stepping out from behind a cardboard cut-out, like stones growing warm in the sun. And, just like, that, Ron and Harry popped into her head.

"This is so..."

She couldn't finish, but he seemed to understand. He released her and lay down again, facing her, his head pillowed on one arm.

"Can't they just not exist for a while?" he said. "You don't worry as much when they don't exist for a bit..."

"I know," she said, rolling over to look at him properly. "But they're going to find out one day."

"Find out?" He repeated, smirking. "Hermione, they believed you when you pretended to be trying out for gymnastics. They wouldn't be able to find their own dicks."

She slapped him on the arm, but she couldn't help laughing a little with him. It had been the most pathetic lie she could have imagined, but it had bought her a couple of hours with him in the school grounds, out of sight of the others. His face grew distant as he caught her arm, his hand spreading across the air before them in a sweeping motion. It was as if he was painting a picture for her, wiping fog away.

"When we finish school we'll go away," he said suddenly, as if with a brainwave. "And we'll live in France, in a vineyard, and we won't have to answer to anyone."

"Europe?" She considered. "I couldn't live abroad. I'd never see anyone back here."

"Then we'll live out somewhere in the mountains, or by the sea, and you'll floo in to see them. They can't judge what they can't see."

"They're not that bad," she protested. "If you just got to know one another..."

She gave up. She couldn't picture a scenario in which the three boys tried to make friends and did not end up drawing wands on each other. Or in which Voldemort wasn't a very real and very dangerous presence on the outskirts of their lives. She felt his fingers on her skin and looked up at him.

"Don't frown," he said, more gently. "I'll try, ok? One day. In about ten years."

She cracked a smile. "So this is a ten-year investment, is it?"

He fumbled for words for a moment before simply pulling her against him.

"Shut up," he muttered.

She smiled against his shoulder. His smell filled her bed and she melted into it, her heart full. She poked him. He grunted, wriggling away.

"Draco?"

"Mm?"

"Happy Christmas."

He huffed out a laugh and rested his chin on her head.

"Happy Christmas, Granger," he said softly.

They were awoken by a steady thudding which sounded nearby, louder with every passing second. Hermione stirred, becoming aware first of the noise and then of the weight of Draco's arm over her waist and the pulse of his breath against her neck. She shifted as the noise continued, wishing it would go away and let her sleep... and then her eyes shot open and she jerked upright.

Draco was awake at once, darting up beside her. There was a flurry of blankets, a loud thud, and then the door to her room was flying open and a blast of red hair was darting inside. Hermione, still in the middle of trying to hiss a warning, squeaked shrilly instead and snatched at one of the blankets, managing to keep it from being dragged off the bed and baring her chest to the world.

"Wake up, wake up!"

To her immense relief, it was Ginny who was greeting her loudly, and she remembered that the boys could not climb the stairs to the girls' dormitories. They could, however, fly through the window with relative ease... She pulled the blanket up to her shoulders, arms wrapped around it tightly. Shooting a quick glance at the space beside her, she saw with further relief that Draco had disappeared. To where remained to be seen, although the pile of blankets on the floor seemed to be a likely candidate.

"Hermione?"

She looked up at Ginny, still pulling herself together. The other girl was blinking at her.

"Are you... naked?"

"What?" She squeaked. "No!"

Ginny looked pointedly at the sheet clutched around her chest.

"Oh, well, yes. It's just I wasn't feeling well last night... And I was quite hot..."

She trailed off helplessly. Ginny, however, seemed to accept her story if with a flicker of confusion. She darted over and bounced onto the edge of the bed.

"Well, anyway, morning! Where have you been? We're all downstairs, Angelina and Luna are about to head home."

"Oh, really?" Hermione cast around desperately for an excuse. "I forgot to set my alarm, I was... Reading."

She had some sincere thanks to give to 'reading' for helping her out of so many situations such as these. Like clockwork Ginny shook her head and rolled her eyes. She poked Hermione's leg through the blanket as she got up.

"Come on, then! We're going down to breakfast soon."

Hermione nodded dumbly until the red-headed girl had darted back out of the room. She snatched up her wand from the bedside table and shot a charm at the lock, letting out a great woosh of air in relief. There was a groan from the floor and she peered over the side of the bed to see Draco emerging from the pile of blankets, looking distinctly ruffled.

"Morning," she said, unable to hold back a giggle at the sight.

"Fucking hell," he grumbled, clambering back onto the bed and disentangling his legs from the sheets. "Thought she'd never leave."

"She was barely here two minutes!"

"Two minutes too long."

She opened her mouth but he sealed her lips with a kiss instead, moving his hand up over her thigh.

"Is the door locked?" He mumbled into her mouth.

She was going to protest and leap up to change, but his touch was sending tingles deep through her belly and she felt her body shiver hopefully. And it was the last time she would see him for a while... His fingertips slipped between her legs and she made her decision in an instant. She nodded and arched her back to press herself against him, slid her hands down over his back.

Some time later the door shuddered as Ginny ran headfirst into it and Hermione darted upright at the affronted sound that pierced the wood.

"Coming! Sorry, sorry!"

This time, she really did have to get up. She ran to and fro across the room, snatching clothes up from the floor, hunting under the bed for her shoes. Draco lifted himself lazily onto his elbow and watched, smirking in amusement as she stumbled trying pull up her jeans.

"Oh god, my wand! Where is it? Damn!"

He pointed at the bedside cabinet and her eyes fell on it, sitting in its usual spot. She snatched it up with a gasp of relief, dragged a thick red jumper over her head.

"I have to go, I have to go..."

He let his head fall back, gazing at her through half-lidded eyes.

"What, no goodbye kiss?"

She had been halfway to the door - now she span around and sprinted back, her mouth colliding with his. Almost at once her legs turned to jelly and she felt like she was falling into him, like she was about to tear the jumper straight off again and -

"Hermione!"

"Sorry!" She shrieked, breaking away.

She heard him laughing as she dashed back to the door, flicked it unlocked with her wand. She turned back one last time before going.

"Promise you'll write?"

He grinned at her. "Promise you'll send naked photos?"

She opened her mouth to rebuke him - and perhaps, some naughty small part of her thought, suggest the same - when the call from downstairs came again. She dived out of the door and plummeted down into the common room, arriving breathless and red-faced.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry-"

"Finally!" Ron said, bounding up from the chair beside the fire. "Let's go, quick, before she disappears again."

"What kept you?" Harry asked bemusedly.

"Reading," she panted as the she moved towards the portrait entrance.

Within a few minutes they were talking among themselves and her lateness was forgotten. And throughout the glorious breakfast all she could think about was him in her bed.

Now

Their first encounter really couldn't have gone much worse. Hermione tried to concentrate on her reading, tried to help Harry talk through his latest discussions with Hestia about the rogue Death Eaters, but she couldn't focus. Neither could Harry, really. The house, which only the day before had been so homely and content, was now set on edge. Unwilling to hang out with their new guest lurking upstairs, the others made their excuses and found errands to run or jobs to do which would keep them out all day. And without the rest of them around, the house was oddly silent and sad.

She ended up hiding out in the living room until night fell, and Ginny's voice came drifting up the stairs, calling her down for dinner. She hesitated on the landing, glancing uncertainly towards the stairs to the attic, but the room above her head had remained completely silent all day. And, somehow, she doubted that the others would be all that happy with Malfoy being invited to join them. So she trailed downstairs and sat at the end of the table, listening to Ginny's chatter, grateful that she and Luna seemed determined to improve the mood of the room.

She excused herself early and was in bed by 10.00pm, her duvet dragged up over her head, her wide eyes tracing the threads and patterns on its surface.

She listened as the others came and went, as footsteps hurried to and fro outside, as Ginny and Luna crept into the room as quietly as they could an hour or so later. She pretended to be asleep. She let the lights turn off around them and listened to the other girls' breathing slowly even out. Only then did she roll onto her back, pulling her duvet down about her waist, and return to her newfound hobby of staring up at the ceiling. Sleep did not feel likely that night.

At about 02.00am, she heard the floorboards above her head creak. She might have slipped into a daze, half memory and half dream, but now she sat bolt upright and watched the ceiling with unblinking eyes. Her heart was hammering away in her throat again. She listened fiercely, and after a short pause, heard the door to the attic room squeal open. Stiff with anticipation, breath caught in her lungs, she listened to the slow, steady footsteps making their way down the stairs. They passed almost right behind her head and stopped on the landing outside her door. She gripped the duvet with both hands, her gaze trained on the silent door to the room, her mind a roaring blank.

But then the footsteps continued, shuffling softly along the landing and embarking on the next set of stairs.

For a moment she sat there, wrestling with herself.

Then, before she could let herself change her mind, she threw back the duvet and darted up to her feet. She ran to the door, opened it as softly as she could, and slipped out onto the landing. The floorboards were cold and rough under her bare feet, and the chill of the house held her there for a long moment before she steeled herself to continue. The house was very dark – he wasn't using the lights. She followed his lead, leaving the candles unlit, and walked to the top of the stairs.

As she reached them, her hand feeling for the banister, she finally caught sight of him. He was a floor down. He was wearing the same trousers as earlier, but the jumper was gone. The grey t-shirt he wore instead did nothing to hide how thin he was, nor the skull and snake which stood out like a burn against the pale skin of his forearm as he lifted his wand. She froze at the sight of it. She had barely really seen it – he was careful to keep it covered most of the time. But seeing him now, with it on full display, his wand drawn and pointed at something out of sight, he seemed a lot more threatening and a lot less like the boy she had known at Hogwarts. She couldn't see his face – he was leaning forwards to look down the stairs, as if expecting someone to come running towards him with a knife at any second.

She had to remind her legs how to move before starting on the stairs, fear prickling in every pore of her skin. It was only as she began her descent that she realised that she didn't trust him anymore. She saw him in her mind once more, the way he had been immortalised – hair streaked with rain water and his face slightly flushed with the thrill of flight, his broom gripped tightly in one hand, his shoulders heaving as he regained his breath, his silvery eyes trained seriously on her as if she were the most incredibly confusing thing he had ever seen. Or lying there in her bed in Hogwarts, their foreheads pressed together, his soft breaths rushing over her skin. The way the corner of his lips moved and formed a strange, joyous little smile.

The contrast between then and now was so great that she could barely believe she was looking at the same person.

She reached the bottom of the stairs, now only a few paces from him, and he suddenly turned his head. She froze, still gripping tightly to the banister, and suddenly found herself wishing she had brought her wand. But as she looked at him, she realised that his eyes were glazed and blank, that his jaw hung slack. He was close enough to hear her, close enough to see her, and yet he didn't seem to register her presence. Instead, he flinched and looked sharply at the next flight of stairs, as if someone had called his name. He moved unsteadily over to the bannister and stared downwards, still gripping his wand tightly.

"Draco?"

She spoke almost without meaning to, and realised too late that she had given herself away, calling him by his first name. Her cheeks flushed red at once, but he didn't even seem to notice. He was still staring, his face reading an odd mixture of fear and confusion. She padded silently across the landing and into his line of sight, waved her hand slightly. He didn't even look at her. She hesitated for another long moment, and then, against her better judgement, reached out and took hold of his arm.

He jerked as if she had stuck a cattle prod into his side, flinching free of her and spinning about. His eyes finally focussed and he blinked fiercely, his wand swinging up to point at her. She stepped smartly backwards, felt the wall come up against her back. For a moment, she actually considered screaming for help. But he wasn't attacking her – instead, he seemed disorientated, confused. He looked around, then down at the stairs, until finally blinking at her owlishly in the dark.

"Granger," he muttered.

The wand was lowered, pushed into his trouser pocket. As soon as it was gone he clasped a hand over his wrist, rubbing his forearm uncomfortably, fixing his gaze on the floor. His handspan didn't quite cover the Mark, and even though he twisted his wrist towards his stomach, she could still see dark tendrils reaching out over his skin. She stayed where she was, not quite ready to relax yet. Having a wand turned on oneself in the early hours of the morning was an unsettling experience.

"What were you doing?"

He looked for all the world as if he had just been unexpected transported by Portkey to the other side of the world. His eyes strayed towards the stairs again, squinting hard, and then he shook himself and shrugged noncommittally.

"Don't know. Sleepwalking, I think."

She just looked at him. She thought she knew him well enough to know when he was hiding something, but did she really know him at all? Looking at him now, all she could see were walls. He was hiding something, she was sure of it. She found her gaze travelling down towards his Mark, and he suddenly tilted his head. When she looked up again, his face was distinctly colder, any vulnerability wiped away. The mask from their school years was well and truly in place.

"What, you want a photo of it?"

She folded her arms, trying to assume some authority. It did not have the desired effect – he smirked at her, mirthless and jeering. She was suddenly very conscious that she was only wearing her long t-shirt, which didn't cover enough of her legs for her to feel quite comfortable standing there in front of him. The golden image of being in bed beside him leapt into her head once again and she forced it away, hardening her resolve. It was a long time ago.

"Since when did you sleepwalk?"

"Since now, apparently." He shrugged, raising his eyebrows in a challenge. "Want to go and tell on me? Go on, I'm sure Hesita bloody Jones can be down here in a second."

She bristled, catching her tongue between her teeth, doing her best not to rise to it. She couldn't understand why he was being so… so like Malfoy. It was as if everything that had ever happened between them had just been extinguished. He had pulled up the drawbridge and marooned her on the other side of a gulf. Once upon a time, he had been the only person she could really be herself around. And now, he was just… just alien. She could feel her mouth forming a cold, hard line, and tried to pull herself together.

"What happened to you? I haven't seen you in…" she trailed off, shrugging helplessly. "I thought… Why didn't you get in touch?"

"Get in touch? What are you talking about?" His lip curled. And then, almost as an afterthought, "Why didn't you?"

She frowned, scrambling to defend herself. "I… there was so much happening, bringing my parents back from Australia and… I don't know…"

"Yeah, well, me too."

He bit the words off sharply and silence fell over them, uncomfortable and leaden. Everything she wanted to say sounded stupid and pointless. She couldn't understand why he was being so strange, why he wouldn't just relax and talk to her… but then, she was being just as antsy. It was as if every nerve in her was on edge, as if the rug was about to be pulled from under her feet at any second. She remained against the wall, her arms folded, and the silence dragged on.

"Well, anyway."

He turned suddenly and headed for the stairs, moving slowly and gingerly. She watched him go, and suddenly felt the urgency of a last chance slipping away through her fingers. She made one final grasp for it, extended one final olive branch.

"Wait, Malfoy…"

The words wouldn't come. It was like trying to embrace an iceberg. One foot on the stairs, he looked over his shoulder at her. His face was completely devoid of anything familiar, and she found her words crumbling to ash on her tongue.

"What, Granger?" he demanded quietly.

It was only then that she realised she had called him 'Malfoy'. Not 'Draco'. Even though there was no one else there to hear.

She shook her head. "Are you… Are you alright?"

The words felt weak and pathetic as they hung in the silence that followed. He looked at her a moment longer, and she wondered if he might say something, something to bridge the distance which was rapidly widening between them. But instead he turned away and continued on up the stairs. She stayed there in the cold corridor until she heard the distant squeal of the attic door closing.

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Thanks for reading! Reviews are always welcome.

SUPRNTRAL LVR.