RUMOURS

Chapter 2

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The initial push off the ground did not reflect any negative feelings he may have felt, nor was his flying frighteningly quick or depressingly slow. He flew away from her window seemingly unaffected by her rejection.

Hearing the window shut behind him, he leaned down onto the broomstick and shot straight to the Quidditch Pitch. 

He flew in a frenzy, from one end of the pitch to another; left and right, up and down. In sharp angles and narrow curves, he pulled tightly out of danger's way. Never had he flown with such intensity and focus.

Nobody ever rejected him. He rejected women, not the other way around.

Draco knew that if things were different, this would not have happened. He would not have gone for a late night flight, nor would he have been entranced by the candle that beckoned him to her. If only last week never occurred.

'Who am I kidding?' he scoffed at himself. Things had changed long before last week.

After fifth year, his father went to Azkaban, forcing Draco to take responsibility of the Malfoy fortunes, as well as upholding the tarnished family name. During that time, the last Black died and through his relations, Draco was named Heir. There were specifics to that entitlement, and for the time being, his mother would be in charge of it, as well as the Malfoy estate. 

By the end of sixth year, he was a man. In sixth year, he found childish pleasures in taunting and teasing the appointed Golden Trio. Without his father's presence, and with Draco's newfound freedom, he questioned the war that his father actively participated in, and the man, being, it, thing, that led his father and his father's friends.

He finally questioned the basis of the prejudice he was brought up to believe and came to the conclusion that blood meant nothing if today was anything to go by. A Half-blood led pure-blood witches and wizards, who obsessed with a boy who rid of him as a baby. Hermione Granger, a Mudblood bested all pure-bloods in a school for magic, and was considered among one of the most powerful in their class.

In Seventh year, he was Head Boy to Hermione's Head Girl position. On top of everything that happened in sixth year, and the responsibilities of being Head Boy, he also had N.E.W.Ts to worry about.

Despite knowing his name would get him somewhere in life, it was his personal goal to beat Hermione in every possible aspect. According to his plan, Hermione would remain the center of his torment in hopes of distracting her, thereby allowing him to beat her.  

It was with great disappointment that he appointed somebody else, with as much creativity and more free time, to devote to a favourite past time of his – making fun of, teasing, insulting, picking on Potter and the Weasel.

His flying no longer consisted of rapid, jagged edges that endangered his life. His breath was quick and shallow when he flew higher up to the sky. He settled up there for a bit, admiring the God-like view of the world. To be so high above the world, ignorant to mortal lives and the worries and stresses that seemed to encompass their lives. For some people it was money, others power and prestige.

From his position in the clouds, he could understand what drove people like Voldemort and the Death Eaters. It was a power beyond reach - to judge and punish those of undeserving blood and origin. For centuries, wizards and witches were on a pedestal higher than the Muggles. For those lesser beings to come and pretend they were a part of this greatness was annoying, mind-boggling, and threatening.

He could see that from up here. But down there, in the castle, on the grounds of Earth, where he belonged, he was aware of what judges were missing out on. There were people whose purpose in life was not for personal gain.

He made his descent to the castle passing by Hermione's darkened room to his own.

He berated himself for not realizing sooner – the night their relationship started. Not the relationship when she was the Mud-blood who scored higher than he did, where she was a mere thorn that kept irritating him and his perfect life. The relationship he traced back to the beginning was weeks after the start of term when a rebellious prefect dared to question not only her authority, but his as well.

Ever since that incident, an underlying respect settled itself. That underlying respect began to see her in a new light, a light where her quirks were no longer annoying, where she wasn't competition, or a threat to his existence. In that light, he had grown to accept her as a witch by her own right. Since then, it was an upward spiral to last week.

He'd always thought her to have beautiful lips – even better than his, actually. Her lips were something that he'd noticed ever since first year despite the attention her buck teeth demanded. Even before girls learned cosmetic spells, Hermione had the most luscious lips. They were full, pouty and red.

Along with the respect and acceptance he gave, her physical attributes seemed to slap him in the face. Her eyes, despite their plain colour, were flaring with life. Combine his appreciation for her features, her intellect, and his acceptance; it would be unsurprising to anyone but himself that a potent attraction had refused to come to light until last week.

Last week when her eyes beckoned him and the movement of her lips entranced him.

After that, he thought she was playing hard to get like most females tended to do. Days later, she was still avoiding him. Despite his confidence in his skills, he thought that she was so disturbed by his kiss that he needed to ask her.

For the sake of his manhood, of course.

He often wondered how a Slytherin man, such as himself, asked a question of this nature without making his weaknesses known. He was an expert in hiding the truth, but through experience, he learned that Hermione was able to see through his carefully selected words.

Luckily, there was no need for him to properly phrase a question since she asked him, rather bluntly as was her Gryffindor nature, what he came for.

He replied the best way possible. Not only did his ego inflate but it came as strong and stiff as a board.

He gathered the pillow in his hands and groaned in frustration.

She was pretty, yes, and she was smart, and she was selfless. Bring it all down to the basics and that's what he admired the most about of her, but why did she affect him so much?

Why was he so disappointed when she looked away from him and told him that they couldn't continue? What was that feeling he felt when he decided to leave the room? It was anger, he knew, but there was something in his chest, something that made him close into his shell and leave before she finished what she had to say.

All the emotions she caused him to feel were new and unidentifiable to him.

Draco had yet to discover the depth of his feelings for Hermione. There was something that lay hidden and unexplored, that refused to make itself known until his mind readied himself for it. His mind had only begun to prepare him for the revelation, and he chided himself for not seeing it earlier.

Hoping to figure out the mystery of his feelings for a certain bushy-haired know-it-all, Draco envisioned Hermione in her room when she saw him outside the window. She looked frightened and panicked, but she was already assessing the situation in calm rationality.

He imagined what a black robed figured floating in the night sky looked like in her mind and from the look in her eyes he knew that she assumed him to be a Death Eater or a Dementor. After all, the only way to get near Hogwarts was on broomsticks.

Turning his head to look out the window, he played the scene out in his head. His imagination ran away, and like a picture, he vividly watched different scenarios in his mind's eye.

A red light and she fell with a thump on the floor. Bounded, she was kidnapped by the Death Eater.

A green light hit Hermione in the head and she died instantly.

Crookshanks hissing, not because of his near-burnt whiskers, but because of the Dementor that was getting closer and closer to Hermione. Kissed and soul-less. Brain functioning, lungs breathing, heart pumping, eyes dim for the rest of her life.

Draco's blood ran cold. His breathing was quick and shallow, his chest hurting with each breath. A chilling feeling bathed him completely from head to toe. Tears collected in his eyes as he clutched onto the fabric of the shirt he wore.

The vision of Hermione's life in danger shook him. He feared the absence of her person in his life. He took a deep breath to control himself and left the imaginary world.

His heart was pulsing was erratically, an ache manifesting in its core. Everything he was feeling – the fear, the worry, the hate – was centered in his heart. He had never felt like this before.

Never.

He knew he was attracted to her. He knew he felt something for her. He knew all those things.

It would be simple to say that his feelings were deeper than he imagined, but it was more than that. There was a peacefulness he often felt when he was with her, but he never dared to think that she was the reason – that his peace depended on her presence.

Draco thought he could easily label her as the woman he loved, but she wasn't. Not yet. With time, she could be that person. She had rooted herself and settled in his heart. To separate her would be like ripping Crookshanks' claws away from the sofa he used as a scratching post.

He didn't know what hurt most – that she was trying to remove herself, or that her claws refused to retract when she tried to leave. It would be easier if she didn't like him, that way the claws would go away and it would a nice, clean separation. But it wasn't.

Actions always spoke louder than words. She reciprocated his kiss, and even moaned his name. Hermione clearly wanted him.

i'I - we, cannot do this. Not now.' /i

'Why the bloody hell not?" Draco argued petulantly. He was a Slytherin with the blood of both Blacks and Malfoys in his veins and he was entitled to argue as petulantly as he wanted to.

One side, characterized by his House and the Blood, clamoured to take what he wanted by any means necessary.

The other side, characterized as the gentleman, humbly defended the position to respect her wishes.

Ten minutes later, the no-longer-humble gentleman was clashing with House and Blood, and he found himself nursing the beginnings of a migraine.

He didn't want a migraine so late into the night, so he opted for the best solution – one that was the easiest and most likely to work for him in the long run.

Draco decided to respect her wishes - until Hermione was ready, he would wait for her.

In the meantime, he would worry about N.E.W.Ts, his mother, and the war. In no particular order.

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To be continued …