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Chapter 14
Draco didn't see Cara again until the next evening, when she came waltzing in for their tutoring appointment. "You're late, McDouglas," he said coldly as he stirred his own cauldron.
She dropped her bag on the table. "Yeah, I got tripped in the common room by Dennis Creevy, and Pavarati Patil, who happened to be standing there, accidentally dropped her pumpkin juice on me, which frankly I'd like to know where she got at this time of night because I could really use something cool to drink…"
"Babbling," he cut through, not even bothering to look at her. He studied the silver gray liquid in his cauldron. Perfect. Just as it should. He would leave a note for Professor Stone to examine it, but in the meantime…
"Oops. Damn," she said, voice still cheerful as she moved around, beginning to set up her cauldron and lay out materials. "Anyway, I had pumpkin juice all over me, and figured you wouldn't mind if I changed clothes before I came."
"Dreamless Sleep Potion," he said, ignoring her chatter and focusing still on what was in front of him. "Don't forget to grind the moonstone very fine. Write that down." His fingers wrapped around the vial in his pocket. If he was successful, it would take very little potion to do what he needed. If not…
There was rustling and clatter behind him as Cara started to work, humming again as she did. La la la la la… Ode to Joy again, he thought. Damn her.
"Can't you manage to do anything quietly, you brainless twit," he snapped, still without looking at her. "Be silent, or return to your dorm."
There was stock silence behind him, and he could almost feel the surprised eyes on the back of his head. He bore it silently, however, pretending he did not notice. He stirred twice, clockwise.
The knife began cutting behind him again, quietly this time. There was no humming. Draco continued to watch his potion and study the liquid inside. He stirred again, three minutes later. Another few minutes, and the moment he wanted came. He heard Cara's feet move toward the store cabinet at the other end of the room.
Quickly slipping out the vial, he dipped out a spoonful of the liquid and filled the slender glass tube. He capped it, and dropped it into his pocket. He had a long night before him. Her footsteps returned to her table and the knife began again.
Draco set the spoon he'd been using aside, and turned now to his table and the few books he'd piled on it. Cara didn't know enough about potions to suspect anything, he was sure. The titles could all be interpreted as something that he might use in his research project, not that she was aware of what it was.
He settled down and flipped the first open. Skimming down the table of contents, he finally risked glancing over at the quiet girl across from him. He was hard pressed not to blink.
Rather than her school uniform and robe, Cara was wearing some kind of muggle clothes. Trousers of a rough blue fabric fit snugly, outlining hips and thigh, and a shirt of pale pink molded her upper body. Molded very nicely, he thought, before dropping his eyes. His heart was beating a little fast, as if he'd been running and just stopped. He scowled at the page as he waited for it to settle. Dammit, dammit, dammit, he did not need this, he thought.
And she was his friend, he thought with a twist of his lips, flipping the page. From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of her lifting the pestle and morter. "Grind very fine," he ordered in reminder. He ignored her long glance at him, the question in her eyes. He stared down at the page. Nothing here.
He skimmed his finger down the lists, trying to concentrate on the book and not the girl. Since when had he become so aware of this ridiculous little Gryffindor? Perhaps since she'd asked him who'd shoved a stick up his ass, he thought in black amusement. No one had dared to speak to him in such a way, except perhaps Potter. Potter didn't give a damn, either, he just looked him in the eye and silently met him toe to toe. Even when he'd hated the other boy with every fiber of his being, he'd grudgingly admired that quality.
She was tipping the bowl toward her cauldron. "Finer," he ordered without looking, and heard her huff of breath with great amusement. He kept his face blank, however, and tried not to notice how she was pouting, her lips pursed in frustration. Bloody hell, he was loosing it. Bad enough he'd been a 'friend' the last few weeks, now he was rapidly realizing he spent far too much time lingering on certain parts of her anatomy. He risked another glance at her muggle-clad form. Breasts. Thighs. Lips. The curve of her nape…
He gritted his teeth and focused his eyes on the page before him. Nothing. He flipped to the final page of the table of contents. Nothing. He picked up the second book and repeated the process, finally finding something that resembled what he sought on the third page.
He turned to the appropriate chapter. An infusion of foxglove, he read silently, can be added to most non-volatile potions, providing the consumer with a certain degree of immunity to pain in the stomach and torso. That was well and good, but the Nerve-Deadening Potion, even when done correctly, was definitely volatile. When added to delicate potions, the results can be uncertain and unpredictable, ranging from no effect to violent side effects, including death. In some cases, with potions of healing, foxglove has heightened the intended purpose of the original potion to the fifth degree. These instances have been rare, however, and seem to occur only when the original potion was created with Pure Intent.
Hah. Potions of Intent again, he thought. He glanced at his cauldron. The only question now was, had he brewed the potion properly?
His intent was pure, he supposed. He needed the potion for his own protection, to give himself a fighting chance. Did that count as pure?
When added to delicate potions, the results can be uncertain and unpredictable, ranging from no effect to violent side effects, including death. He read that line again. Death by his own hand, even accidentally, was preferable and certain to be less painful than death by Bellatrix. Not with all the little games she'd been playing.
There was a clatter across from him, and he glanced up sharply. Cara was glaring at her now broken pestle and sucking her thumb. She'd cut it, he guessed, and then narrowed his eyes.
"Did you have moonstone on your finger before you stuck it in your mouth?" he demanded, straightening in his chair.
She stared at him, then glared. "Shut up," she growled.
He was out of his chair then. "Dammit, wench, did you?" He was frantically trying to remember the antidote for moonstone poisoning as he rounded the corner. His answer was in the widening of her eyes as she began to choke.
He cursed and leapt forward in time to catch her before she doubled over. "Breath, Cara, dammit, breathe!" he ordered. His fingers found her throat and felt the swelling under his fingertips. He looked around frantically. He needed…
Ahah! He spied the bottle of blackwater on the corner of the table. One arm around her waist, he dragged her against him as he reached for it, flipping the stopper off with a flick of his thumb. She was convulsing against him, her skin turning blue as she fought to breathe. He was forced to hold her tightly against him as he pressed his free hand to her jaw, trying to get her lips open enough for the blackwater.
"Swallow," he ordered, absolutely terrified this wasn't going to work. He pressed the bottle to her lips. "Swallow!" She choked and sputtered some of the liquid back out, but to his relief, he saw that she'd swallowed some of it. He held her tightly still, tremors still traveling through her as the blue tint began to recede. She gave a wheezing gasp, hauling in a deep breath. One of her hands came up to clutch at the front of his sweater as she fought to get her breath back.
"Breathe," he said, feeling a little weak now. "Just breathe." Carefully he set the bottle of blackwater on the table. She was leaning heavily against him.
"Merlin," she whispered in a rasping voice, still breathing jerky and rough. She sagged against him a bit more.
Draco glanced about, and decided he'd do better making sure she didn't fall if they were sitting. Keeping a firm grip on her, partly for his sake as well as hers, he lowered them until they were sitting on the floor, his back against the wall. "That was stupid," he said harshly, even as he tightened his grip on her. Now that she was starting to sound normal again, he found his own limbs wanted to go weak, and a furious anger flooding his mind. What was this feeling? he wondered, locking his muscles against the despised reaction.
Cara sat nearly in his lap, leaning heavily against him and simply breathed in and out. Her weight was warm and soft against him and certain dark thoughts that had trailed around the edges of his memory forced their way toward the front of his mind. She'd nearly killed herself, because of being careless.
"You brainless twit," he said, voice tight and cold. "You could have killed yourself."
He felt her sigh as well as heard it. "Thanks," her voice was whisper-soft and scratchy.
He still felt that helpless anger at the sound. He had no control over it, no tangible reason for it. "I should turn you over my knee and beat it into you," he snarled, hauling her tighter against him.
Her hand tightened in his sweater. "I'm ok," she said softly.
He snarled something foul, and then jerked as he felt her fingers creep up to his face. She touched her fingertips to his face, and he stared down at her. "I'm ok," she said again, looking up. Her eyes were wide and dark and perfectly serious.
He still felt that rage racing through him, and he was struggling to contain it. "You could have died," he said harshly.
Her fingertips still rested against his cheek, and she gave him a tiny smile. "You saved me. Again," she said simply.
The feel of that hand against his face, her body pressed against his, and the fact that she seemed to accept it without qualm all seemed to swirl into a violent mix with that helpless rage in his blood. He made the quick, final decision. Enough.
"Damn you," he snarled, and bent his head.
**********
Cara had been looking up from where she rested against Draco's chest, still catching her breath as she listened to the comforting sound of his beating heart. She'd tried to soothe the anger and worry that she was sure he hadn't even realized was there, and then suddenly found herself with his mouth sealed over hers.
Lips, hot, hard and furious, burned into hers. It made her dizzy and she gasped against that stern mouth. That small weakness was ruthlessly seized and she found herself besieged, surrounded, overwhelmed as his mouth plundered and destroyed hers. She'd never been kissed, not properly, not other than she clumsy kiss she'd pressed on this very boy before, and now she found her mind had fled and her hands clutched at his shoulders. She was helpless, drowning and utterly mad.
And then he pulled back, one hand buried in her hair, pulling her head back almost painfully. She stared, bewildered, up into molten silver eyes, narrowed to mere slivers in that sharply handsome face. "Well?" he demanded.
She had no clue what he was asking, but every nerve ending in her body was dancing the cha-cha, and she didn't think her mind was going to function properly for the next few days. She reached up one hand and curled it around the back of his neck and tugged.
His eyes flashed and then his mouth was on hers again, hungry and demanding again. And this time, she met him, just as hungry for something she didn't understand, and not having a clue what she was doing. His lips opened over hers, and she gasped again as the tip of his tongue traced the seam of hers. That clever tongue slipped past them and inside, darting in and out to taste and plunder, sending her farther and farther into a daze of bewildering pleasure.
And then he was gone, shoving away and striding to the other side of the room to pace. She stared at him, even as her fingers touched her lips. Had that really just happened?
He whirled and glared at her. "Get your things," he snarled. She stared blankly at him. "Now!"
A bit bewildered, she climbed slowly to her feet, knees still shaky. He was there, with a hand under her elbow, and she looked up at him.
He dropped her arm. "Get your things," he growled again, face unreadable. Cara wished for one clear moment that she could know what was going on in that clever, handsome head of his.
With still trembling hands, she slipped her notes back into her bag. As she went to reach for the bag, it was taken from her hands, and she was jerked unceremoniously toward the classroom door. "Move," she was ordered, and found herself being towed out the door and down the hallway.
All the way back to Gryffindor Tower, she stared at the back of his head, the questions swirling in her mind, far too many to sort through and answer. His grip on her hand was hard and unyielding, and sent hot tingles through her arm.
And then he was jerking to a stop a few yards from the portrait and whirling on her with that unreadable face. She took a step back, trying to stand and look him in the eyes and found her back against the wall.
He bent until his eyes were burning into hers and said in a soft, harsh voice, "We're not friends any longer." And then pressed another ruthless kiss on her, leaving her head whirling, before letting her go and disappearing down the hall.
Cara leaned against the wall and tried to breathe. She lifted her hands and found them shaking.
"My, my, now that's what I call a kiss," came a voice, and she jerked her head up to stare at the Fat Lady. Her mouth opened and closed, and the painted woman shook her head kindly. "You better tidy your hair, dearie, before you go in."
Cara took a deep breath. "Thanks," she said, a little shakily, before she reached down to pick up her bag. She smoothed a hand over her hair, before taking another deep breath. Did she have a lot to think about. "Butter crumpets," she said, and then stepped inside.