The Long and Winding Road - Part Two
I'm no angel… but does mean that I won't fly?
Dido 1999
Draco
He stared over at Hermione, hunched in the corner of the shed, shivering. The sun had set now, and wisps of clouds were chasing the tiny star pin-pricks dotted throughout the skies. The moon had come out, and hung like a sliver of white gold in the mosaic of Prussian blue and starlight, a thin piece of its entire self. It was growing increasingly cold, and Draco watched as yet more baby-soft ice kisses wound their way down from the heavens, thousands falling at once.
"This is all your fault, Malfoy," she said vengefully, tucking her nose into her drawn up knees.
Draco stared at her in silence for a while. "And how do you come to that conclusion, Granger?" he asked. Hermione did not reply, for in truth, there was no reply to be given. It was true. They were both equally to blame and also not to blame.
Draco reached over to a thin cord dangling by the door, and pulled it sharply. The cracked blue glass lamp high up on the shelf above their heads suddenly burst into light, casting a dusky mellow blue beam all around the shed. Hermione was shivering, and she hugged her thin coat around her. Draco was cold too, and he reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a tall bottle filled with transparent liquid that half-filled it.
"What's that?" asked Hermione suspiciously, analysing it sharply.
"Vodka," said Draco simply. He took a quick swig, and tried to disguise his grimace as the liquid burnt his throat. Hermione stared at him.
"You think you're so great, don't you," she said shortly. "The steady stream of girlfriends, the drinking, the living it up, being captain of the Quidditch team… Your gaggle of cronies who pander after your every need…"
Draco turned his mesmerizing gaze on her, and put the vodka bottle down on the bench. "I'd say my life is a great deal more exciting than yours, yes. And don't tell me you weren't longing for a drink at that pathetic party last night. I saw it in your eyes."
Hermione reeled, and Draco saw this, and was pleased. "How dare you!" she exclaimed. "How dare you presume to know what I think and feel?"
Draco smiled lightly. "Believe me, Hermione," he said. "I know a lot of things about you."
Hermione stared at him, aghast. "You… you… called me Hermione," she whispered, almost awe-struck. "You never call me Hermione. Ever. It's either Granger, or one of your many…"
"Terms of endearment?" suggested Draco.
"If you're using the word in the sarcastic sense, then yes," she replied cuttingly. And then, as if what Draco had said only just occurred to her, she said, "How can you say that? How can you know anything about me? Anything at all? You and I… we're enemies. On different sides. Dark and light. You're Slytherin, I'm Gryffindor… Yes you've spoken to Harry, to tease him, bait him, upset him… But never me. I've always been the one who stands in the shadows, watching anxiously. I do believe the only time you've ever directed a remark at me personally, was when you called me a filthy little Mudblood. You know nothing, Malfoy. Nothing at all."
Malfoy leaned back on the hard bench, and gazed unnervingly at Hermione. "And how can you be so sure… Hermione?"
"Stop talking in riddles, Malfoy," she snapped, and turned away to face the wall. Draco raised one blonde eyebrow at her, and picked up the vodka bottle with a heavy chink of glass against wood. Hermione surreptitiously turned to stare at him as he lifted the rim of the bottle to his lips, and the clear liquid flowed inside the dark mouth.
"Trying to keep out the cold?" she asked disdainfully. Draco merely regarded her neutrally, as a cat might regard a small child.
"It won't work, you know," she carried on, regardless. "If you get drunk, your nervous system-"
"Yes, thank you, I don't need another lecture from Miss Goody-Two-Shoes," said Draco scathingly, and took another swig in defiance. "Besides, got any better ideas?"
Hermione shrugged, and stared at her shoes. She was shivering quiet violently, Draco noticed, and with shock, he realised just how cold his hands were. Rubbing them together briskly, he stood up to try to get the circulation going. There was an old cracked mirror on the wall of the shed, for no good reason that Draco could think of. He brushed some of the dusty cobwebs away, and stared into the murky, distant reflection. A pale boy stared back, his skin even more startlingly white and delicate looking than usual. The platinum eyes flashed in burnished defiance, and snaky tendrils of moon-coloured hair raked his forehead.
Hermione voice cut through his thoughts. "My, my someone does have a big head," she muttered. Draco did not attempt to make any kind of comeback, and merely flopped down in the opposite corner of the room from Hermione, on an ancient pile of bean-bags that were faded and ripped. Some of the dust-coloured polystyrene beads popped out as he sat down, and Draco poured them from one hand to the other. He raised a tentative finger to his lower lip, and felt ice-cold flesh at his touch. "Jesus," he muttered. "It must be well below freezing now."
"Congratulations, Sherlock," came to sardonic reply from the other side of the shed. Draco raised his eyes to the heavens, and decided to give up the niceties.
"Look," he said shortly. "We've got to get through tonight, preferably with all limbs intact. I don't want to fight with you. But if you're to continue these little witticisms of yours, which quite frankly are baiting me more than you most likely realise, then things will have to be said - and done."
"Is that a threat, Malfoy?" Hermione sugared, feigning innocence.
"Wouldn't you like to know," muttered Draco crossly, running a tired hand through his hair. He lay back against the cold, hard wood of the wall, and bit his lip to stop the retorts from tumbling out in their usual cutting way. He pulled the vodka bottle out of his jacket again, and took a small sip.
"Want some?" he offered. Hermione snorted, and ignored him. Draco put the bottle down on the floor. He could see Hermione visibly trembling from head to foot from the cold, and heard the chatter of his own teeth inside his mouth.
"You know the best way to keep out the cold, don't you?" he said, purposefully provocatively. Hermione shot Draco a glance so cutting that it would have mown down a grown man at thirty paces.
"If you think I'm going to sleep with you," she said icily, "You've certainly got another think coming, my friend."
Draco smiled. It had worked. He'd baited her. "Just a bit of body heat," he crooned. "Just come and lie next to me."
Hermione looked at his hard for a moment, antagonizing the situation. Draco could see she was trying to stop shaking so visibly.
"All right," she muttered at length, and stumbled across the shed to the bean-bags, where she flopped down next to Draco, still eyeing him suspiciously.
"I know what all boys your age are after, you know," she muttered, pulling a beanbag up against the wall. "So don't try it on."
"Would I?" Draco exclaimed innocently, pulling the tatty cord above his head. The shed was plunged into darkness, and he waited for a second for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Hermione was lying down on the beanbags, her coat thrown over her body like a make-shift blanket. Draco lay down close next to her, and shut his eyes. The cold penetrated his every bone, and he lay there, thoughts running through his head non-stop. Presently, Draco heard Hermione's breathing become deeper and more prolonged. He opened his eyes and scrutinized what he could see of her face in the dark.
She wasn't conventionally pretty, he decided. Not in the way of the Patil twins or Katie Bell. Nor did she have natural feminine allure as Pansy Parkinson owned, who flaunted it to its furthest degree. He thought of Pansy. Bottle blonde, voluptuous, coy. She was very attractive, but almost too easy; in more than one sense. He hadn't had any chase to capture her affections, and though her looks were, undeniably, stunning, she had the pretence of a false, fake doll. He disliked that.
Hermione. Brunette, curly locks tumbling down her back. A fresh, open face, and dewy velvet eyes that seemed to see right into your soul. Her nose was small with a smattering of freckles, and her lips were palest coral pink. Everything was natural, pieced together in a hap-hazard way. And in a strange sort of sense, she was more beautiful than Pansy. Pansy was pretty, yes, and bubbly, and sexual. But never beautiful.
Draco stared at Hermione's smoky form in the blackness. Her slim body, small breasts that just showed slightly at the neckline of her top, the pinkish-gold sheen of her skin. He reached a hand out to caress her cheek, which still felt warm even in the cold of the shed that seemed to chill you to your very core.
Draco ran a hand down her side, feeling the slim contours and slight curves of her body. It's time to stop pretending, he thought to himself. I want Hermione, he thought purposefully, the first time he had allowed his mind to realise it. And I need to have her. He leaned over so that his face was less than an inch from her own. Her lips were slightly parted, and Draco gently met them with a fleeting kiss.
"Good night," he breathed, and lay down on the beanbag, his face turned towards Hermione's.
*
Morning sunlight streamed through the small windows of the shed, mixed with a cold blue light reflected off the snow. Blearily, Draco opened his eyes. His skin was so cold, it felt as through he was wrenching his eyelids through a layer of ice. Hermione lay asleep, still, her breast rising and falling slowly. Draco watched her, transfixed. He was overcome with a sense of longing, and was just reaching out his fingers to brush away the irresistible lock of hair that had fallen across one of her eyes, when she stirred. Draco watched as her body arched slightly, and her mouth opened cleanly to take a new fresh breath of air. Her eyes slowly opened, and the first thing they saw was Draco, looking down. He saw a tiny jolt in her expression, before she recovered herself.
"Sleep well?" he asked.
"No better than you did, I'm sure," she said, and yawned and stretched.
Draco couldn't help himself. He saw his opportunity to take her off guard, and his arms were outstretched towards her before his brain could realise what he was doing.
Draco reached forward and grasped Hermione around the waist. He pulled her towards him, and got a tiny glimpse of her mouth opening in shock, before he plunged forward and kissed her deeply. It wasn't a rough kiss, but it seemed to go on for eons, deeper and deeper, into different heights of ecstasy. His lips were bruised and burnished, and electricity shot through his flaming body. Draco was suddenly jolted back into consciousness, when he felt Hermione pull away sharply.
"I'm sorry," he said immediately, seeing her face. "I'm so sorry, Hermione. I didn't think, I didn't-"
He stopped. Hermione was regarding him with a bemused expression, and she cupped her chin in her hand, still gazing at him. Draco felt uncomfortable. He longed to know what those velveteen eyes were drawing in, and what her mind was thinking.
"I'm sorry," he said again, feeling stupid and smitten at the same time.
Hermione carried on staring. And then, finally, she spoke. "Don't be," she said simply.
"What?" Draco exclaimed, before he could stop himself. "But-"
"I pulled away," Hermione finished for him. "I know." And she opened her mouth as if to say something else, and then thought better of it, and shut it again.
Draco stared at her in bewilderment. He didn't know what to think or do; an unusual predicament for him. And then, he didn't have time to think, for Hermione was slowly leaning forward towards him, and Draco shut his eyes and leaned in too. He felt her breath on her skin, and tingled, knowing she was only a hair's-breadth away from him. He felt a tiny caress from her bottom lip, and then -
"Well, well! What do we have here, hmm?!"
Draco and Hermione jumped apart, and gazed guiltily up into the face of Madam Hooch.
*
Draco lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. He could still taste Hermione on his lips, feel the firm press of her mouth on his, the voltage of electricity passing between them as they stole one last kiss before fleeing to their separate dormitories.
Madam Hooch would never let him live that one down. Thankfully, she assumed that they had come to the shed early that morning. If it ever got out that two Hogwarts pupils spent the night together in the Quidditch shed… well. It didn't bear thinking about.
Draco let out a low moan. Hermione had not said a word to him, just slipped away at the main staircase, and was gone in seconds, her cloak flapping around the mahogany door that then slammed in his face. He was left up in the air, not knowing what was to happen next, nor what the correct thing was to do.
He stood up, and went into the bathroom to have a shower. Stepping into the warm pelting water, he lifted his face to look straight as the water flow, his eyes wide open, seeing through the pounding downpour. It was funny. Every girl he had ever gone out with (and there were now far too many to count), he had chosen them for their looks. They had all been shallow, self-centred, one-dimensional people. Hermione… she was something different. She had a spirit, a fluency, and an independence. And a lack of wanting him, which made him feel extremely put out, and also all the more eager. Now that he thought about it, she was the only girl who hadn't fawned over him, been desperate to go out with him…
He stepped out of the shower, pushing the wet strands of hair out of his face impatiently. Dressing in a fresh black robe, he went back into the dormitory. Crabbe had gone. Thank God. He was becoming more and more of an annoyance every day. Aconite, his smoky black cat was staring at him aloofly, poised and perfect on the window sill. She had been a birthday present from his mother that year. More things lavished on him out of guilt. She wasn't bad, his mother. And he knew she cared, it was just…
Never mind. Aconite wound her way down onto the bed, and regarded Draco with large fiery eyes. She permitted him to stroke her, and rub her gently around her ears, but then suddenly she had had enough, and hissed before leaping lithely onto the floor, and trotting over to the radiator.
"You've got the right idea, Aconite," Draco said out-loud to his cat. It was true. This January had been the coldest one on record so far, and Draco shivered in the thin black robe. He sat down next to her on the floor, and she grudgingly curled up in a fluffy ball next to his knee. Draco ran his hand down the warm, smooth fur, and felt her arch her back at his light touch.
"Raaow," cried Aconite, batting at an invisible prey in the fronds of the carpet. She looked up at Draco with beseeching copper eyes, and opened her mouth again to let out another strangled call. Draco grinned at her wryly, listening to the piteous whinge, and took reached inside up to his bedside table where his green Quidditch robes had been flung. There was a pocket sewn on the inside of the robes, and he pulled his wand out.
"Oh yeah," he said wryly to Aconite. "So my wand was in my robes after all. How silly of me…" He grinned, and flicked his wand to produce a handful of chicken-flavoured cat treats, which he fed to Aconite, who purred like a steam engine.
"How silly of me," he repeated, and picked Aconite up and held her fur next to his cheek. "Looks like it could be a very interesting term, kitty cat…" Aconite let out an outraged yowl, and wriggled out of Draco's grip, giving him a parting kick in his stomach as she ran across the room, shaking her fur, shocked at such indignities.
*
Draco walked along the corridor, looking around him. He was well and truly lost. The different houses, never, as a rule, visited each other's wings in the castle, and when he had gone to that travesty of a party the other night, he had only managed to find the Gryffindor common room by complete accident. There was nothing for it. He would just have to ask someone…
At that very moment, the door he was just passing burst open, and a black-haired boy shot out, his head down. Draco only caught a fleeting glimpse, but it was enough. That was Potter, looking rather anguished to say that least. Strange. Perhaps he caught sight of himself in a mirror! Draco cackled malevolently to himself. Maybe Ron was in there, he'd surely know where Hermione was.
Sure enough, Draco cautiously pushed open the door to see Ron sitting on the edge of his bed, head in his hands. Draco felt a little intrusive, despite himself. Ron looked up quickly as he heard the door swing shut.
"Harry?" he asked, and Draco saw his face fall as he saw who it was, and immediately, his eyes fill with distrust. "Malfoy!" he snarled. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Draco reclined lazily on the bookcase just behind him. "Now, now, Weasley. No need for unpleasantness. I just want to know… Well, do you know where Hermione is?"
Ron rocketed up from the bed, leaping to his feet. "Why? Why do you want to know where Hermione is? What are you going to do?"
Draco smiled. "My, my, someone did get out of the wrong side of-"
"Shut up," Ron interjected, snappishly. "I wouldn't tell you if I did know, you rat. I suppose you've already tried her dormitory."
"Well, that's the thing, I…"
"Can't find it?" finished Ron for him. "Well, tough. I'm not telling you, unless you tell me why you want to find her."
Draco sighed inwardly. This was a problem he had not foreseen. Of course, Potter and Weasley wouldn't exactly be best pleased with Hermione going out with the treacherous Draco Malfoy. Ah.
"No matter," said Draco breezily. "Enjoy your rendezvous." He caught a glimpse of Ron's white face and his expression, before turned away, and setting back down the corridor. Oh, the things one does for love, he thought to himself, and smirked, brushing ice-coloured tendrils of hair away from his eyes.
The girls' dorms must be near here somewhere… He saw Lavender Brown tripping out of an identical oak-paneled door, and realised that must be Hermione's room. Lavender was in a Muggle dress, far too short for her unfortunately chunky thighs. It's your funeral, Dean, he thought nastily to himself as he watched her wobble down the stairs in black velvet sandals with four-inch heels.
Draco knocked smartly at the door. A second later, Hermione opened the door, and he saw her eyes widen.
"Come in!" she said quickly, and practically pulled him inside, looking briefly around the corridor before shutting the door firmly.
"Ashamed of me, or something?" Draco quipped, the corners of his mouth betraying his mock-hurt expression. Hermione smiled.
"What are you doing here?" she asked.
"To find out if you're a Mamma Mia girl."
"Abba?" Hermione exclaimed, frowning confusedly. Draco snorted.
"Italian food, Hermione! Pizza… pasta… unserweiter."
Hermione laughed. "That's German, you idiot!" she said. Draco looked distinctly ruffled.
"Linguist, are you?" he snapped.
"Fluent in five languages," said Hermione proudly. "And I'm learning Russian in my spare time."
Draco mouthed a swear word. "Anyway," he said quickly. "Do you like Italian food?"
"Who's asking?"
"Well… me!"
"I do, very much. Why?" she asked, smiling at him, for she knew what the answer would be.
"Roberto's? Seven? Glad-rags?"
"You're on!" said Hermione. "Only… don't tell Harry or Ron. I don't think they'd like it much."
"You're telling me," muttered Draco, and headed for the door. He shot a parting comment over his shoulder.
"And, Hermione? Do yourself a favour, and don't borrow anything from your friend Lavender's wardrobe."
*
Draco had managed to find his way back to Hermione's dormitory that night. He had met her looking rather different than usual.
"Done something to your… um… hair?" he almost stuttered.
"Done something to your brain?" she shot back, and took his arm.
And now they were in Roberto's, and Draco was picking at his pasta, for his eyes would not be torn away from Hermione. Some people just have the sort of percussive face, that means you simply have to look at them. They're not necessarily pretty, in fact more often untraditionally attractive than not. There's something in their movements, their expressions, the life from their eyes that makes you want to drink in their every feature. And this was the way Draco felt about Hermione. There was no way he could put it into words, she just seemed to… glow. It wasn't physical or mental, or anything that he had ever felt before, simply an unearthly attraction that penetrated his every fibre. Almost… spiritual. Except that spirituality had become a cliché, over-used in the wrong context, and now was a slightly taboo subject. There simply was no word for something so deep.
Of course, thought Draco to himself, grinning, it didn't hurt matters that Hermione was dressed in a silky dress-robe, in a misty colour, with sheens of blues and greens, like the earth seen through films of clouds. It swung lightly over her slight curves, and the dipping neckline showed her pale smooth skin.
"Not a bit like Lavender," he said smarmily.
"That supposed to be your gentleman's charm?"
Draco smirked by way of reply. Hermione suddenly sniggered.
"Sorry!" she giggled. "But that dress she was wearing tonight…!"
"Aha! Not so high and mighty after all!"
"What, moi?" Hermione mocked.
"Very funny, you." Draco slapped down a smattering of galleons on the bill plate, and they ran out into the dark Hogsmeade street. It was lit by the electric glow of the line of shops, and salsa music was belting from a nearby Latino restaurant.
"Let's dance!" said Hermione impulsively. Draco stared at her.
"What? Here, in the street?"
"Don't worry, little Draco darling! I'll lead!" And Hermione grabbed Draco around the waist, and started to guide him around the cobbled street. She did a quick-step, and Draco stumbled and trod on her black velvet sandaled foot.
"You've had too much wine, Hermione!" he cried, slightly terrified.
"C'mon!" she shrieked, and flung Draco back over her arm, samba-style. "Give in to the rhythm, Draco!"
And he did, and suddenly became a lot easier, as they cavorted up and down, regardless of the people watching them from the restaurant windows.
"When my baby," sang Hermione breathlessly, "when my baby smiles at me, I go to Rio… de Janeiro."
"Now I'm not the kind of person," Draco joined in, giving up all pretence of being cool and collected. "with a passionate persuasion, for dancing… or romancin'."
"But I give in to the rhythm, and my feet follow the beatin' of my heart!" cried Hermione, tripping over the edges of her robe. "When my baby, when my baby smiles at me, I go to Rio!"
"I'm a salsa fellow, when my baby smiles at me! The sun lights up my life!"
They stumbled back down the road towards the train, giggling shamelessly. Hermione had lost one of her sandals, and she hopped down the cobbles.
"Never thought you had it in you, Draco!" she exclaimed, as they fell back into the plush seats of the Express.
"Meaning?"
"Never mind…" she said sleepily, and slipped sideways onto Draco's shoulder. He had to half carry her all the way from the station up to Hogwarts. Shoving the door open to her dormitory, he dropped her carefully down on her bed, noting that Lavender's bed was empty, and it was after twelve.
"Good night," he said, almost tenderly, and immediately checked himself. As he pulled her duvet over her, he noticed how pale her skin was.
"She really did have too much wine," he said, feeling slightly responsible. He stumbled tiredly down the endless corridors to his own wing, and collapsed into bed, his eyelids heavy. Draco fell asleep immediately, mumbling to himself.
"When my baby smiles at me… I go to-" he yawned, "Rio…"
To be continued…
