Title: Tension and Release

Author: Wynn

E-mail: effulgentsunhotmail.com

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Harry Potter. They are owned by J.K. Rowling, Arthur A. Levine Books, Scholastic Press, etc. No copyright infringement intended.

AN: This is a continuation of Tension and Release. More parts may come in the future if I can find the time to write them. This chapter contains a partial quote from the Buffy the Vampire Slayer episode "Life Serial." Also, many thanks to Mariedel for betaing. Feedback is a wonderful and much appreciated thing.

Part Three: Wonderland

By: Wynn

Crisp white snow crunched underneath Hermione's boots as she cautiously made her way down the steps leading from the front door of Hogwarts to the cold, quiet grounds surrounding the castle. The chilled night air stung her nose and throat as she breathed in. Tears flooded her eyes and clouded her vision. Grabbing her wand, she muttered a warming spell, sighing as warmth flooded over her, shielding her from the harsh winter air. She knew she should be inside, curled up next to the fire in the Gryffindor common room, sitting someplace warm, someplace hospitable, and not tramping about after dark in December, but she needed a break. She needed some space. The atmosphere inside Gryffindor tower, inside Hogwarts as a whole, could be described, at best, as tense. At worst: suffocating. And currently, everything was at its absolute worst.

Since the start of sixth year, reports had slowly trickled in as to increased activity among Voldemort and his followers. Lately, however, the reports had not trickled in. They flooded in, burying the school beneath rolled pieces of cream parchment carrying urgent messages from the outside world. Messages about mysterious disappearances. Messages about destruction. Messages about death. Voldemort was increasing his activity, becoming bolder with each blow struck, each battle won, and the wizarding world, including Hogwarts, was scared.

Terrified, more like it. War was coming. It was inevitable. It was not a question of if it would happen, but a question of when. If not today, then tonight. If not tonight, then tomorrow. Lines were drawn, and lines were crossed, and everyone was choosing sides. The giants, the dementors, the goblins, everyone and everything. Choosing and waiting. Waiting for the beginning. Waiting to die. And everyone, from Dumbledore down to the most naïve first year, knew it. The fear seeped out of everyone, students, teachers, constant, consistent, staining the stone walls with stark terror, filling the corridors and classrooms, pressing down upon Hermione until she could no longer breathe from the weight of everyone's apprehension and wide-eyed, panicked stares of dread. Because all eyes were on her. Her and Ron and Harry. They all looked to Harry, Ron, and Hermione to save them, to unleash the miracle and save them all from Voldemort like they had so many times in the past. Nobody said it out loud, of course, but they all looked. And they all pleaded. And Hermione didn't know what to do or what to say or how to act.

Nobody did.

Not even book worm, study freak, child prodigy Hermione, and that scared her most of all. Her books were useless. There was no grand plan hiding amongst the stacks, waiting to be unleashed and safely rid the world of Voldemort once and for all. The plan had been set in motion fifteen years ago, churning along until its inevitable, prophesied conclusion. Voldemort would die or Harry would die. Everything rested on them and their last battle. Either everyone would be saved or everyone would be damned.

If they weren't already dead.

Because people would die along the way to that final confrontation. Voldemort would see to that. He'd send his giants, his Death Eaters, his dementors, in wave after wave after wave of onslaught, gradually wearing everyone down from the constant pressure and presence of violence and bloodshed. And then he'd go for the killing blow.

And Harry would die.

Hermione stopped halfway to the lake, feeling bile rise up in her throat at the thought of Harry dying. Or maybe it was at the half-hysterical thoughts spinning through her mind. She was slipping out of control, losing her rationality amidst all the panic permeating Hogwarts. Harry had faced Voldemort five times. Five times and he'd survived them all. He would survive this one too. She'd make sure of it. She'd find a way to keep him alive, and if she couldn't find a way, she'd think of one herself. But now she needed a moment away from everyone to collect her thoughts and re-establish some order to her mind.

And then she'd research and she'd study and she'd plot and she'd burn through every book in the library searching for a way to help Harry.

A way to help them all.

Closing her eyes, Hermione ended the warming spell. The cold air assaulted her senses, shocking her system awake, shaking off the tangling webs of uncontrolled fear cluttering her mind. She breathed deeply, tilting her face up towards the night sky. A faint wind brushed across her skin, over her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, sending shivers coursing through her body. She opened her eyes and peered at the moon hanging above her head. Silver-white and shining behind the ephemeral ivory clouds. Her mind flashed back to that moment in the library a month ago, when she peered at a pair of silver-white eyes shining behind strands of ivory hair.

Draco.

She dropped her face to the ground as a flush spread across her skin. She would not think about him. She would not. She would not analyze and deconstruct and evaluate those few minutes in the library. She wouldn't. Not again. They were an anomaly, a slight deviation from the norm. Nothing more. A momentary détente between adversaries. That's all. A brief respite from the insults and the bickering.

Only the bickering and insults hadn't continued after that night. Not really. Draco still antagonized Ron and Harry and everyone else in the school who wasn't in Slytherin at every opportunity, but to Hermione… to Hermione there was nothing. No cries of Mudblood. No scathing remarks about her hair or her teeth. Not a glare. Not a scowl. Not a glower. Just a glance, a flicker of his eyes towards her, a shuttered acknowledgement of her presence. And then he was gone, in a billow of black robes and a blacker mood.

She'd turned their interlude over and over in her mind, searching for the hidden clue that would unlock the mystery and allow her to understand just what had driven Draco to the library in search of her that night. He'd told her he came because he knew there was something more than the carefully controlled world created by his father. But what did that mean? Did he think he would find that elusive something more with Hermione? And then he didn't? Is that why he hadn't spoken to her since? Because of disappointment? In her? In their conversation? Was she… lacking something?

Hermione's fists clenched, wrinkling the cotton gloves protecting her hands. She wasn't lacking anything. Sure, she wasn't the most attractive girl in school, but she wasn't… ugly or anything. She'd finally achieved some modicum of control over her hair, taming her unruly mane into bushy curls instead of her usual amorphous frizz. And her teeth were normal sized, had been since fourth year. Her eyes were nice, a little big maybe. Ok, so they were brown instead of a vibrant green like Harry's or cool grey like Draco's, but they were nice. Warm. And she had many other positive and noteworthy qualities besides physical attributes. She was intelligent and a talented witch; she could be funny, on occasion. And she listened to that smarmy bastard when anyone else would have told him to piss off, so what more could he have wanted?

She slowed to a stop at the edge of the lake, ruthlessly biting down on her lower lip. She would not cry. She wouldn't. Not for him. He wasn't worth it. Not worth her time or her attention. Not under normal circumstances and certainly not during wartimes when there were a thousand other things more important than whether or not Draco Malfoy wished to converse with her.

Then why had she come outside instead of to the library, the place she usually escaped to when she desired solitude and peace and quiet?

Because he might have been there, wanting to continue their discussion of Classical lit, continuing on as if the past month of avoidance never occurred.

Because he might not have been there, like every other time she had been in the library at night, alone with her books and her thoughts.

Hermione sniffed and rubbed a hand across her eyes. She conjured a small bench and sank down upon the bare wood. The surface of the lake, ice covered and mirror smooth, glimmered with moonlight and starlight, creating dual heavens before her eyes. She kicked at the snow bordering the ice as she muttered, "Stupid Slytherin. Stupid, arrogant, amoral prat."

"I always fancied rat-faced bastard myself."

Hermione's head snapped up at the sound of his voice. Heart pounding beneath her chest, she spun off the bench, coming face to face with Draco Malfoy. He was a black and white vision, clad in a thick black wool cloak and a silver scarf. His hair, curling around his ears and skimming his chin, glowed iridescent in the moonlight. And his eyes… shining silver-white beneath ivory lashes.

"Hello, Hermione. May I sit down?"

The sky stretched above Draco, inky black and dotted with twinkling points of gleaming white starlight. He drew in a deep breath, grimacing as the frigid winter air bit into his throat and lungs; his eyes traveled over the star-encrusted expanse of the sky, drinking in the monochromatic landscape. Everything looked clearer in the cold. Sharper and more precise. The world of spring and summer was hazy, covered in a film of warmth and love and humidity that clouded everything, making the world seem innocuous and benign. But in winter… in winter, everything was starker, stripped down, and laid bare, devoid of the deceptive cocoon of warm air accompanying summer. In winter, nothing was sugarcoated. Nothing was sentimental.

Which was what Draco needed now. He needed the harsh clarity of winter. He needed to be able to think clearly, to analyze the events unfolding around him, and he couldn't accomplish that if he remained in the Slytherin common room. There was too much confusion and fear in the air. War was brewing, and the time was rapidly approaching for all Slytherins to choose which side of the war one wanted to be on. Because no one would be allowed to remain neutral in this conflict, not even a bunch of boarding school kids. It was kill or be killed, Draco knew, and not sit back and watch everyone else kill each other. The future of the wizarding world was on the line, dependent upon the outcome of the final conflict between an insane, newly resurrected dictator and an irritating prat with a martyred hero complex, and everyone was expected to step across the proverbial line of good and evil one way or the other.

And for the first time in Draco's life he was at a loss as to what to do. His father was locked away in Azkaban, had been for six months, and his influence over the Malfoy household was waning. Little changes occurred at first. Mealtimes, previously held in the formal dining room, were moved to the tiny alcove off the kitchen. Random pieces of artwork favored by Lucius, a rug here, a sculpture there, were either replaced or simply removed altogether. Letters from home contained more personal, intimate writings from Narcissa; in the last letter Draco received, his mother had gone so far as to tell him she missed him. It was encoded, of course, in case of prying eyes. Still, the sentiment was there, in feeling and in writing, something that would never have occurred under Lucius' reign as head of household. Lucius always said that sentiment was for simpering buffoons, not for the premiere family of the wizarding world.

Draco knew that if Lucius was still around and not locked deep inside Azkaban, he wouldn't be having this existential crisis. His path would be laid out for him, ending in a Dark Mark branded on his forearm and eternal allegiance paid to a pasty git completely obsessed with killing a sixteen year old moron. End of discussion.

But Lucius wasn't here.

He wasn't here because he was in Azkaban, locked away for the rest of his life unless Voldemort spared a few moments in his quest to murder Potter to break him and the rest of the captured Death Eaters out. But it didn't matter if Lucius was free again. His name was tarnished and no amount of money or blackmail would ever restore the gleam of glory previously associated with it. Too many people knew he had been at the Ministry fighting side by side with Voldemort. He wouldn't be able to bribe and blackmail his way back to respectability. Voldemort had to win or Lucius Malfoy would be ruined: either killed outright during the war or imprisoned within Azkaban for the next hundred years and then killed.

And in Draco's estimation, the odds weren't in favor of Voldemort winning. His track record against Potter unfortunately spoke for itself. Five times the two had faced off, and five times Potter had come out victorious: the first of which when he was a baby. A sodding baby. As much as Draco loathed admitting it, the bespectacled git had the annoying tendency of winning. A long and glorious rule by the Dark Lord looked like a distant possibility, and it seemed that following in Lucius' footsteps to become a Death Eater led to one destination and one destination only.

Death.

And Draco didn't want to die. Not any time in the near or the distant future. He was quite happy being alive. He had plans, a list of things he wanted to do a kilometer long, and not anywhere on the list was 'die bleeding and gasping in a mud-filled battlefield.' But his desire to stay alive, and thus, by proxy, decide not to become a doomed Death Eater, left Draco with only one option, an option that violently and repeatedly activated his up-chuck reflex.

Side with Potter and become one of Dumbledore's self-righteous minions.

Maybe death wasn't such a horrible option after all.

Draco sighed. Maybe he could move to Switzerland. They were allowed to remain neutral in both magical and Muggle affairs. Why were they so special? Why couldn't he turn his back on the whole ruddy affair and live his life the way he wanted, free from Potter and Voldemort and their Epic Struggle for the Ages? But Draco knew that if he tried to remain neutral, he would be branded a traitor by the vast majority of the Slytherins supporting Voldemort and deemed a spy for the dark side by the do-gooder brigade. Either way he was dead.

Fuck.

Bloody stupid wars.

Draco cursed and leaned back against one of the trees surrounding the lake. Maybe following Dumbledore wouldn't be too bad. Maybe if Draco took the time to really get to know Potter and his cronies instead of hurling insults and curses at them at every opportunity, he would discover that Potter was really an alright bloke. A swell guy. A decent person.

Yeah, and maybe Potter and Voldemort would elope to Vegas, get married, and then go raise penguins together in Guam.

What was he going to do? Maybe he should just Avada himself now and-

Draco stiffened as the rhythmic crunching of snow and ice reached his ears, interrupting his increasingly morose and rather morbid thoughts. Who the hell would be coming out here, in freezing temperatures, this late at night? Had one of the professors seen him creep through the corridors and outside the castle? Slipping behind the tree, Draco peeked around the other side, searching for whoever else had decided to embark on a late night stroll to the lake.

It was Granger. Of course. Draco had avoided the library for a bloody month trying to stay away from her. Tonight, he'd even braved the elements and trudged outside on the coldest fucking night of the year instead of going to the library for the peace and quiet he so desperately craved because he hadn't wanted to run into her. Yet here she was. Outside. Walking straight towards the lake. Straight towards Draco.

Life had a sick sense of humor sometimes.

And it wasn't that Draco didn't want to see Hermione. He did. Talking with her had been surprising. Stimulating. Interesting. Around Potter and the Weasel, Hermione remained in overbearing, bossy, know-it-all, prude mode. Without those two losers, she was still a bossy know-it-all. But she was also witty and more relaxed. More capable, or more willing, to see Draco as something more than just an Evil Slytherin with a Daddy Death Eater. But that was the problem. Being around her was too dangerous. He thought… differently around her. He acted differently. Decidedly un-Draco-like. And in these times acting decidedly un-Draco-like put him on the fast track to Death and Ruin.

He watched her stop halfway to the lake. She closed her eyes and tilted her face towards the sky, breathing in deeply. The tension vibrating through her body eased off some as she sucked in the crisp air. The set of her shoulders relaxed; the pinched line between her brows smoothed over. She wore her winter cloak and gloves; her Gryffindor scarf curled around her neck, a blazing red and yellow that clashed horribly with the lavender cap she wore on her head. Her hair bushed out around the cap, a russet cloud of curls framing her pale face. She exhaled slowly as she opened her eyes to stare up at the moon. A blush spread across her cheeks and she dropped her face down towards the ground.

Draco raised an eyebrow at the play of emotions dancing across her face. The stubborn set returned to her jaw, and she thrust her shoulders back as she continued her trek towards the lake. Anger bloomed across her delicate features, fading as quickly as it had appeared, leaving behind a mixture of hurt and confusion.

He wondered what had driven her from the castle. Probably something idiotic done or said by the intellectual wonder duo Potter and the Weasel. Honestly, what did she see in those two morons? Her continued interactions with them must have been a play on her part for sainthood. She couldn't truly enjoy their company, could she? Draco grimaced at the thought. He knew Granger was noble and all that rot, but fraternizing with Potter and Weasley pushed every boundary even peripherally associated with nobility.

Hermione stopped by the lake's edge, only five feet or so from Draco. Her gaze swept across the frozen lake as… as… Oh god no. No. She was going to cry. Her teeth clamped down on her trembling bottom lip, and tears welled within her eyes. Draco eased back behind the tree, panic spinning through his mind like an out-of-control Filibuster firework. Shit. Shit. What was he supposed to do? Stand there and listen to her snivel and cry? Go and try to comfort her? Draco didn't know the first thing about comforting a crying girl, let alone a crying Gryffindor.

Potter was so dead for putting Draco in this situation. Draco might not know about comforting crying girls, but he knew a thing or two about revenge. What had that git said to make Hermione break down like this? Whatever it was, it wouldn't be half as bad as Draco's severe beating of Potter would be. Idiot. Stupid, stupid Gryffindor.

"Stupid Slytherin. Stupid, arrogant, amoral prat."

Well, fuck.

Of course it would be Draco's fault she was crying. He hadn't even seen Hermione for a month, an entire freaking month, and somehow he found a way to make her cry. Not one nasty glare had been shot her way. Not one curse or insult or malicious smirk. Nothing. Yet she was still crying. Over him.

He had to fix this.

Draco blinked. He did not just think what he thought he just thought. He didn't fix anything. He broke things. Gleefully smashed things into a million tiny pieces and didn't spare one thought as to how the pieces would be put back together again.

But he had to fix this.

Now.

How he would fix this was another matter altogether.

Fortune favors the brave, and while Draco wouldn't exactly characterize himself as brave (that was a trait reserved for retarded Gryffindors who held no value in self-preservation), Draco did have copious amounts of snark and sarcasm in his arsenal. Maybe fortune wouldn't completely screw him over this time.

Sucking in a deep breath, he stepped around the tree. Hermione sat on a conjured bench, facing away from him, kicking at the ice and snow rimming the lake. Squaring his shoulders, he opened his mouth and said, "I always fancied rat-faced bastard myself."

Hermione spun off the bench. She stared at him wide-eyed, mouth hanging open in shock. Her cheeks and nose were still flushed red, but thankfully no tracks of tears marred her face.

"Hello, Hermione. May I sit down?"

Five, ten, twenty seconds of silence passed as Hermione stared slack-jawed at Draco. What was he doing here? Had he followed her? Oh, god, had he seen her cry? Had he watched her cry? Why didn't he turn right back around and march right back up to the castle? Why had he approached her now? What was so special about now and not any other moment of the past month? Was it because she was alone? Could he not be seen being civil to her in public? Would it sully his good pureblood, Slytherin name to talk with a Gryffindor Mudblood?

The minute mark came and went, and Draco started squirming under her intense scrutiny. Blinking once, Hermione shook herself from her shocked stupor, narrowed her eyes, and let fly all of the million questions that had been buzzing in her brain for the past four weeks. "What are you doing here?"

"I-"

"Did you follow me down here?"

"What? Follow? No, Granger, I did notfollow you down here. In point of fact, I was down here first, so if anyone followed anyone, you followed me."

"I didn't follow you here, Malfoy. I didn't even know you were out here until you spoke."

"Well, I didn't know you were out here until… until…" Draco trailed off. He grimaced as his gaze dropped down to the snow.

Hermione folded her arms across her chest and raised one eyebrow. "Yes? Until? Until what?"

Eyes flashing with irritation, Draco snapped, "Until I spotted you walking down here, Ok?"

"Oh. So you saw me walking down here and decided to watch me without my knowledge? You were spying on me instead of following me? That's so much better. Truly it is."

Hands fisted, Draco moved a couple steps closer to Hermione. "I was not spying on you, Granger. Do you think I concocted this terribly complicated scheme to lure you out of your common room in the middle of the night to go tromping down to the lake so I could crouch behind a sodding tree and watch you snivel and cry? Yeah, that's exactly what I want to do with my time."

Hermione bristled at his mocking tone. "Well," she said through clenched teeth, "since I'm wasting so much of your precious time with my sniveling and my crying, I'll just go now." She stomped past him, the ends of her scarf whipping in the air behind her. What a jerk. She would not cry. She wouldn't. He was a smarmy bastard. A smarmy, sarcastic, Slytherin bastard. Nothing more.

She heard him groan and mutter, "Oh, for fuck's sake," before he sprinted after her. "Wait, Granger. Granger! Hermione, would you bloody wait a moment?!"

Hermione stopped and spun back around toward Draco, mouth open to tell him she would not be waiting a bloody moment. Before she could though, he crashed into her, knocking them both to the ground in a tangled heap of limbs. They remained still for a few seconds, breathless, staring at each other in shock, and then Hermione realized she was under Draco Malfoy and started squirming beneath said Draco in an attempt to crawl out from under him. She pushed against his chest as she said, "Would you get the bloody hell off me, Malfoy?!"

"I'm trying! Quit squirming! You keep knocking my hands out from under me!"

"That's because your hands are on me!"

"They keep sliding on the snow! How the hell else am I supposed to get enough leverage to get off you?"

"Like this!" Hermione maneuvered her knee up against his chest beside her hands and shoved. Draco flew off her, landing on his arse a few feet away from her. Sitting up, Hermione brushed bits of snow off her cloak and straightened her cap on her head.

"What exactly is your problem?" he snapped.

"My problem?" She glanced at Draco, who glared invisible daggers at her through disheveled platinum hair. "I don't have a problem."

"Yes, you do. You have many, many problems. Your problems are vast and numerous. But the one I'm referring to is your tendency toward violence when you're around me. First you slapped me-"

"You deserved it! You were being nasty!"

"And now you kicked me-"

"I did not kick you, you baby. Stop whining."

Draco's jaw tightened. He pushed off the ground and stalked over to Hermione. She caught herself before she leaned away from him and forced herself to stare at him defiantly. Glaring down at her, he said, "You're one to talk about whining, what with the whole crying by yourself by the lake bit. A bit pathetic, isn't it, crying in the middle of the night over me? I mean, I know I-"

Hermione lashed out with her leg, kicking the backs of Draco's knees and sending him tumbling back down into the snow again. She sprang up from the ground, rage coursing through her, turning her vision red. Trembling, she said, "You are the most arrogant, rude, and horrible prat I've ever had the displeasure of knowing. How dare you attack me now! What kind of person attacks another person who's obviously at a low moment? Grow up, Malfoy. I can't believe I ever thought you might be a halfway decent person. Obviously, I was wrong. That is a mistake I won't be making again, I assure you."

She knew she was crying now. Tears flowing down her face, nose running, eyes puffing up, but she didn't care. Let Draco snitch to all of his stupid House mates that he saw Hermione Granger break down and cry like a stupid little girl. Their opinions didn't matter anyway, and neither did Draco's. Certainly not to her or to anyone else with half a brain.

Draco stood. He stared at her, his grey eyes wide and wary. He grimaced again, gaze floating up to the sky, and something flashed across his face, disappearing before Hermione could process it. Eyes flickering back down to her, he said, "I… Hermione… Bloody hell, stop crying. Please. Please stop crying."

"Why? Am I making you uncomfortable? Tough shit. You deserve it for acting like an idiot."

"Possibly, but-"

"Possibly? Possibly? You were not possiblyan idiot. You were, you are, definitelyan idiot."

Irritation twisted his features. "I am not an idiot. You kicked me. You kicked me, told me I was a whining baby, and I got pissed. How the hell else was I supposed to react?"

"I didn't kick you-"

"You fucking kicked me, and you bloody well know it, Granger."

Hermione sighed, the fight and the fire fading inside of her. She rubbed one gloved hand over her face. She was tired, tired of crying, tired of being out in the cold, and tired of fighting with Draco Malfoy. All she had wanted was a moment of peace and quiet. Just one bleeding moment. Wearily, eyes closed, she said, "I know. You're right. I'm sorry I kicked you, Malfoy. I didn't mean it, alright? I'm tired and I'm stressed and you had to go and say that crack about wasting your precious time, and I overreacted. It won't happen again. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to go to bed before I do anything else violent."

She turned away from Draco and headed back toward the castle. It had been a mistake to come out here. It had been a mistake to let Draco affect her the way he did, make her think he could be different, make her think he could think of her differently. Hermione shook her head. Everything between them had been one mistake after another, one slap, one curse, one kick, one slur after another, and she was tired of it. Tired of it all.

And then he said, "Wait. Hermione. Please." And his voice, so unlike the cold drawl spoken to her over the past five years, his words, not calculating and cutting and confident but pleading and sincere and fragile, made her stop.

She stopped. She actually stopped. Well. That was unexpected. Maybe there was something to this whole asking nicely thing after all. But then this night had been one surprise after another for Draco, what with the crying and the kicking and his multiple usage of the word 'please,' so watching Hermione Granger comply with one of his requests shouldn't have been that shocking. But it was. And now she was waiting for him to say something, anything, and he couldn't think of a damn thing to say. Which was also shocking in and of itself. Although not as shocking as Draco expected it to be since he had been rendered speechless by Granger many times in the past. But most times in those situations he just slunk off, sneer firmly in place, hiding his inevitably wounded pride beneath a haughty veneer. But slinking off now would be detrimental to his determination to make things right, and once Draco set his mind to accomplishing something, he almost very nearly accomplished it, unless it happened to be catching the snitch against that lunkhead Potter, in which Fate seemed determined to deal him the cruelest of the cruel hands and-

Draco started out of his increasingly rambling reverie as Hermione spoke. "If you've got something to say, bloody well say it, Malfoy. Otherwise-"

"Just shut up a minute, Granger, alright? I do have something to say-"

"Then say it."

"I'm trying-"

"I'm waiting."

"Quit interrupting me! For fuck's sake, can you stop talking for one second? If you hadn't noticed, I'm trying to be serious here and fix whatever I did to make you cry, and you seem determined to bollix it all up, which, in retrospect, is probably a good thing since I haven't got a bloody clue what I did to you and thus no idea how to fix anything. I haven't said anything mean or nasty to you the past month. I haven't screwed up your potions in Snape's class or picked fights with you in Arithmancy. I've been a perfect fucking angel who's done his best to stay out of your way, and when I do chance to actually speak with you, you fly off the bloody broom handle, accuse me of spying on you, call me a whining baby, and knock me on my arse not once but twice!"

Hermione rounded on him, marching over to Draco until they were nose to nose. Eyes sparking with anger, she poked a finger at his chest and said, "Well, to quote you, 'how the hell else was I supposed to react?' After five years of name calling and petty bothering, you did a complete one-eighty and actually conversed civilly with me for a half-hour. And then you avoid me for four weeks, only to show up in the least expected place possible, crack a lame joke about yourself, and then proceed to insult me, knock me over, and then insult me again. You are seriously disturbed, Draco Malfoy, and excuse me for not being able to predict which personality you choose to exhibit tonight."

"Still not understanding the problem here, Granger. Are you insane because I tried to talk to you? Or are you acting barmy because I stopped talking to you?"

Hermione remained silent and stared stubbornly at a point slightly above Draco's left shoulder. Draco moved into her field of vision, catching her eyes with his. "What is your problem with me, Granger?" She scowled at him, and the force of the emotions swirling within her toffee eyes nearly made him abandon this entire fool's pursuit. Nearly, but Draco had perfected the art of being a Stubborn Bastard, and there was no way in hell Hermione Granger was going to out-stubborn him. Not tonight. Not ever. "Answer me."

"Why should I?"

Draco blinked, caught off guard by her simple question. He had been expecting hostility mixed with frustration and resentment; instead Hermione had opted for cool, quiet logic. After a moment's hesitation, he answered, "Because I asked you to."

"And what weight does your request hold with me?" Draco opened his mouth to respond, an irritated quip residing on the tip of his tongue, but Hermione cut him off with an impatient wave of her hand. "I'm serious. Why should I answer you? We're not friends."

"No, but we're not enemies anymore. Doesn't that count for something?"

Hermione raised one eyebrow. "You don't think we're enemies anymore? Why? Because of one halfway normal conversation followed by a month of silence? That doesn't make you my friend, Draco. It just makes you seriously confused."

"I am not confused. What did you think would happen, Granger, if everyone suddenly saw us chatting together? These are delicate times, and any deviation from the norm is considered dangerous. Do you want to be labeled a traitor-?"

"No-"

"Because that's what would happen if your House mates saw us together."

Rolling her eyes, Hermione said, "I sincerely doubt everyone would think I suddenly decided to jump ship and follow Voldemort. I'm a Mudblood, remember? It's Voldemort's target population for extermination. If anything, us being seen together would label you as the traitor."

"Exactly. And Slytherins don't take too kindly to betrayal by one of their own."

"What?" Hermione's brows drew together in confusion. "You don't seriously think they'd… they'd kill you, do you?"

Draco said nothing. He simply met Hermione's gaze. Confusion quickly gave way to shock on her face, only to be replaced by a grim contemplation. She licked her lips and drew in a shaky breath as she processed his silent reply. Thick flakes of snow began falling around them, sticking to the ends of Hermione's curls and dotting her cloak and scarf. She shivered slightly and then she said quietly, "So why are you out here, talking with me, if it's so dangerous?"

Her face was open and unguarded; her eyes shone with concern and curiosity. She tilted her head to one side and regarded him as Draco attempted to untangle the mass of emotions, wants, and motivations fueling his actions. He didn't know why he was here, talking with her. He knew it was dangerous, to her and to him. He didn't know why he wanted to make things right with her, to make her stop crying over him. She was the enemy, a Mudblood know-it-all Gryffindor. He just knew that he didn't want to be anywhere else right now and that he didn't want to see her cry.

A flash of black crossed his vision. Draco stiffened as Hermione's gloved hand passed before his face. The tips of her fingers brushed against his brow, easing back a stray lock of his hair. His eyes flew to her face. The look on her face… she had never looked at him like this before. Nobody had. Her expression was tired and worn, but it was tender. Hopeful.

Her hand drifted from his face, ghosting its way down the side of his body. The almost-touch burned into him. He closed his eyes, steeling himself against the effects of her touch, feeling something break and shift and settle inside him. Her fingertips grazed against his, and his hand curled around hers, clasping her hand within his own.

"I don't understand it either," she whispered. "But I want to be here, too."

end