Chapter Eight

Penance

The next several days were little more than a blur for Malfoy. He slept far more than was necessary, ate automatically, taught robotically and drank excessively. The only thing he recalled from that time was a near constant headache. He was, as they say, in a complete daze, and he found the experience nominally gratifying. He found he liked the haze. Of course, he already knew that, from past experience. The alcohol clouded everything to a manageable point. Memories, anguish and sorrow were lessened and hazy. Fake, induced happiness was better than real misery, wasn't it?

Thinking was highly overrated anyway. It usually only brought him trouble. Free of his overzealous contemplation, the drunken old men at the Hog's Head were far more interesting than he could have previously imagined. Who knew that men who spent the majority of their lives at a pub would have so many riveting anecdotes? He would not admit it to himself, but this emptiness in his head was just as miserable as the jumbled thoughts he usually entertained.

Malfoy decided that avoidance was a beautiful beautiful thing, and it could really only bring him abject joy in the end. Didn't they say that ignorance was bliss? Hermione once told him in response to that little quip that it was a wonder there wasn't a higher percentage of happy people in the world if that were indeed true. Stupid Hermione. What did she know anyway? Aside from a few obscure charms and some curious, but totally useless historical facts, she didn't know all that much.

Hermione. He meant to stop and see her. He really did, but he always found some odd reason not to. She was surrounded by well-wishers and people just stopping to say hello. Malfoy never knew that many people held Hermione near and dear to their hearts. It didn't matter; it gave him the perfect excuse to stay away. He heard McGonagall rarely left her side. McGonagall was almost as protective of Hermione as Malfoy was.

As for Henry Jamison, it appeared the boy suffered from some mental condition. He claimed he heard voices in his head that told him to attack Hermione. It was determined that the boy was not under the Imperius Curse or any other nefarious charm or potion. Malfoy wasn't so sure that was indeed the case. He supposed that it was easier to face the fact that he had pummeled an innately evil boy rather than a mentally ill boy. Could the world ever be black and white for him again?

The boy was currently staying at St. Mungo's where healers decided how best to manage his schizophrenia. He would finish his schooling at Beauxbatons, as Hogwarts was no longer considered safe for the disturbed boy. The students did not understand his condition, and several had vowed to take violent action against him when he returned.

While guzzling copious amounts of coffee in the staff room in an attempt to dispel his hangover, Malfoy heard that Jamison had apologized to Hermione. Why Dumbledore had let Jamison in the same room as Hermione made Malfoy seriously doubt the old man's sanity. From Snape's account, the boy was a slobbering weeping mass, and Hermione had wrapped her arms around him and told him that it was alright, it wasn't his fault. Her actions disgusted Malfoy, mental illness or no. Not Jamison's fault. Please.

He had also seen Weasley slink into the castle, presumably to see Hermione. Rather than enraging him, as Weasley's presence was wont to do, Malfoy merely resolved to drink even more that night. In his mind, there was really nothing else to do. He let his moment with Hermione pass the day he brought her to her rooms from the hospital wing. It was best not to think of such things

He imagined Weasley and Hermione were back together at this point. Their relationship was famous for its on-again, off-again status. Hermione would always take Weasley back when he promised that this time, things would be different. She told Malfoy after their last break-up a little less than a year ago that it would be the last; she would never be with Weasley again, but Hermione had said that on more than one occasion.

She wept into his shoulder as he held her tightly. Usually, she would not let him hold her so close. It was the first time she had ever openly cried in front of him. The sight made him want to cry.

"Shhh, it's okay love. It will all be alright. You'll see." He placed a kiss on the top of her head. He assumed she was so devastated because she lost the love of her life and he absolutely refused to think about how that made him feel.

"No," she choked, burying her face in his chest, "you don't understand. You don't understand, it will never be okay."

"Yes it will," he said with quiet firmness. He shifted to pull her closer to him; he couldn't seem to get her body close enough to his.

Malfoy sincerely hoped that Weasley would treat her better this time around. She deserved so much more than Weasley could give her. Malfoy didn't know the particulars of that relationship, as Hermione never really told him anything, but Malfoy was sure the fault lay entirely with Weasley. His heart ached dully as he pictured them together again, but it didn't matter when he could do nothing about it and there was drink to be had.

Malfoy had resolutely decided that all life's answers could be found at the bottom of a bottle of firewhiskey. Hope was a thing of the past. He would never have her and things would never be the same between them. Really, everything had worked out for the best. Except for those damn headaches.

Currently, he was sprawled all over his bed, fully clothed. The sun shone on his face seeming to berate him his idleness. He supposed it was somewhere around noon. He'd gotten home at seven this morning. Thankfully, it was Saturday and he didn't have any classes or duties to attend to.

Head: hurt; mouth: dry; stomach – oh gods.

Mafloy stumbled to the bathroom and emptied his stomach of its contents. He slid to the cool tile floor of his bathroom and let his body slump against the wall. He made quite a lovely picture really – face smashed against the wall, mouth hanging obscenely open, hair sticking up, and limbs uncomfortably flung about.

He must have fallen asleep because the next thing he remembered was hitting the floor with a thud. He heard someone snorting in surprise, but refused to acknowledge that it was himself. Carefully, he pushed himself to a sitting position. He might think about getting up in just a little bit. Doing just about anything at all seemed too much. He pulled a hand across his face – his mind was blank, but unintelligible whispers skittered across his skull and tried to awaken him. Malfoy did not wish to hear them.

Hangovers sucked. The wizarding world had spells to clean your home, potions to cure disease and mend bones, but nothing to take away the misery one inflicted on oneself from a night of drinking. He imagined there must be some sort of conspiracy formulated by the powers that be to keep good hangover remedies unavailable to the general wizarding community. Fucking bastards.

He eased himself off the floor, grunting with the difficulty it imposed on his sluggish body and aching head. He propped his arms on either side of his sink in an effort to steady himself. The mirror reflected his horrible self back at him. His hair was shaggy and terribly messy. The bruises and cuts had completely healed, but he had a new bump on his forehead from hitting the floor moments earlier, dark circles encompassed his dull eyes and he hadn't shaved in days. All in all, he looked like hell.

Malfoy examined himself. His features were a bit too sharp and pointed to be considered truly handsome. His departed mother once told him that he would grow into his features to become a truly striking young man. It seemed that his face simply decided that it would rather not do such a thing. In his teenage years, a cousin of his told him that he was cute in an ugly sort of way. She always was a bit of a cunt anyway. Turning his head to the side, he admitted to himself that there was something decidedly rodent-like in his face. He never would have considered it were it not for that fucking Moody turning him into a ferret so many years ago.

He focused on his eyes. There was nothing there. Nothing. The emptiness inside reflected out through his dead eyes. He searched the dull irises, trying to find something, anything. How did he end up like this? As a child, and even in days as a Hogwarts student, he never imagined he would end up like this. The boy he had been was nothing like the man he had become. The arrogance and conceit were still there, but to a barely discernable degree. He was unsure of himself and his place in the world. He produced a façade of self-confidence, but it wasn't real. He was just a right old fraud. His life was backwards – teenagers were supposed to be awkward, and adults self-assured.

He bent his head and looked at his filthy sink. The house-elves were getting delinquent in cleaning his chambers. Focusing on some dried toothpaste, he decided it was time to quit drinking. He knew he had something of an addictive personality. It was a time in his life he generally tried to forget.

After they had left Hogwarts, Hermione disappeared for long periods of time with Weasley and Potter. Malfoy was not invited. He pleaded with Hermione. He begged her. He needed to be near her; she was his center – the only real person in his life. His seventh year was unlike any other time he experienced at Hogwarts. He was the outsider – his own housemates wanted little to do with him, and the students of other Houses regarded him with barely veiled disgust. But Hermione was there for him, as she said she would be.

Hermione and Malfoy made fun of each other, they laughed and studied together, and she seemed to have an innate ability to get him out of his head. And she never judged him. He knew that if he were in her place, he could not have been so charitable. He didn't know precisely when she started to mean so much to him. He just knew that when she left him after seventh year, everything was lost. He lost his best, his only friend.

And he didn't know just how or when it was that he changed. He just knew that he was different. Things were different. The world itself was different. He was something like a small child, fascinated by people and things he was seeing for the first time. The world truly was altered when viewed through a different set of eyes.

"Hermione please, you know I'm not the same as I was."

"I know, it's just," she looked away from him, "it just isn't my decision. I'm so sorry." Her face was twisted in some sort of anguish – he didn't know why – she was the one leaving him. She had friends and family to rely on – he obviously didn't.

"What am I supposed to do?" He knew there was desperation in his voice.

She hugged him tightly. He wanted to wrap his arms around her, but didn't. "I'm sure you'll find something."

"Hermione-"

"I have to go. We'll still see each other, and I'll write often. I am sorry." And she was gone.

Hermione wrote him regular letters, telling him of the mostly inconsequential things in her life, but it wasn't enough. It wasn't that he needed her per say, but she made him. . .real. And if he wasn't real, there was really only one other option, and he simply couldn't stand to think of himself as fake. At the time, he couldn't differentiate between what was real and what was fake. He wanted lines and boundaries that would tell him his place, but he couldn't seem to find them. Hermione had grown to revel in the gray areas of life, while Malfoy ached for the black and white. Perhaps it was a remnant of his father's world that could not consider anything that didn't fit into some sort of binary thinking. Change does not happen over night after all.

He spent a year wandering, finding odd jobs and then quickly moving on. His world had no center, no place to be. He was lost – he did not belong in his father's world, and he was not welcomed into Hermione's world. The world was new and strange to him, but that didn't mean he knew what to do with it. With nowhere else to go, and nothing else to do, Malfoy retreated into various "parlors" of Knockturn Alley that served an assortment of illegal substances and potions. When he indulged, he could almost forget about her, and the dozens of tortured deaths he could have stopped, but didn't. It didn't matter that he couldn't understand the world. It just didn't seem to matter when he was under the influence of some sort of potion or substance.

He did try to find comfort and kinship in the other people he met in these places. As he found often happened, when people were not properly themselves, they bonded almost instantly to other people, but when a high dissipated, these same people would look at each other with doubt and suspicion, and wondered if perhaps their new best friend might have any little drug they might want to share. Soul mates were found and lost in an evening. People would speak of the deepest subjects in the night, but could remember nothing of what was said the next morning. Malfoy had heard the same few conversations re-hashed dozens of times.

Malfoy, therefore, separated himself from others. He concentrated on the brilliant visuals the drugs produced in the swirling forms and colors. He also found he could open his mind to all sorts of possibilities. It would very suddenly not matter to him that the world was not black and white, and he didn't have a fixed place in it. He could embrace emptiness and oneness, meaning and triviality. But as it was with any drug, he had to come down, and he would sink once again into endless miserable world peopled with tormented ghosts, until he could raise enough money for his next hit.

Malfoy ran across his father in one of these dingy parlors. He had not seen him since he left on Platform 9 3/4 for his seventh year.

"Well, well, well, what have we here?" a smooth voice said. "Why it's my own flesh and blood." Malfoy tired to focus his drugged eyes on the man who dared approach him in such a state. He rarely spoke to anyone these days. When he realized it was Lucius, he found he wasn't afraid. His father would kill him and that would be it. Wasn't that the way it was supposed to be? Mlafoy just hoped it wouldn't be too painful. The two other men with Lucius stood to the side detachedly watching the father-son reunion.

"Hello Lucius," he said, hoping he didn't sound too wasted. He desperately tried to keep his head from flopping about.

"Hello Draco." His father circled around his table in a rather predatory manner. "Honestly boy, you have outdone yourself." He tapped his cane on the floor as he walked. Malfoy was having a hard time following him.

"I really didn't think you could bring anymore disgrace upon yourself, but here you are." His tone was frighteningly conversational. Malfoy could only glare as best he could.

"Just get on, jus'. . . just get on with it Lucius," Malfoy stuttered and slurred. It was due more to the drug than to his fear.

Lucius laughed his slimy little laugh. "Get on with what my dear son? Are you hoping I'll dispose of you? Ah, I can see you do." Lucius laughed again. "I think not. I can see you belong here, pining after your little mudblood. How is she these days anyway?"

Malfoy stumbled out of his chair and clumsily lunged for his father.

"You leave her alone!" Malfoy shouted. The other patrons who were able to lift their heads from their tables began to stare. Malfoy didn't have any regard for his own life, but Hermione's – well that was different. And besides, he wasn't pining for her, he just missed her. That was all. His missed his friend.

Lucius easily threw his son back in his chair. "I wouldn't dream of it. You have much to learn son. There are many different kinds of torture. And disgrace that you are," a sigh and a shake of the head, "you are still my son. I suppose it was my own fault. I should have seen it sooner. You have broken your dear mother's heart you know." Malfoy was surprised to hear grief in his father's voice. In his odd, somewhat twisted and self-serving way, Lucius Malfoy loved his wife and son very much.

Lucius gripped his son's chin and whispered into his ear. Malfoy shuttered at the feeling of his father's breath on his skin. "I could make her yours. There are. . . various spells and potions for such things. I cannot understand your desire for her, but," he shrugged, "to each man his own. I know you would enjoy her. Think about it. You know where to find me. Goodbye." Lucius released him and he left. It was the last time Malfoy ever saw his father.

After his enlightening encounter with his father, Malfoy had spent even more time and money in those parlors trying to keep his mind off his father's offer. As ashamed as he had been, his fantasies of Hermione greatly increased upon his father's offer. He imagined her kisses and her love, he imagined himself between her thighs and her sighs of pleasure. More than once, Malfoy had been determined to take his father up on his ofter, but Malfoy always resisted that temptation in the end. He simply couldn't do that to her. In his shame and misery, Malfoy had sunk even further into his empty callous wasteland.

He wasted many months in this manner, until Hermione came for him. Hagrid had accompanied her – Knockturn Alley was not a safe place for a pretty young witch. The strange duo had dragged Malfoy out of that place and locked him in a room at 12 Grimmauld Place. Hermione helped ease him through his agonizing withdrawal. He had his center back. For the most part, her very presence soothed him. For the other, much smaller part, he hated her.

He couldn't remember exactly what he said or did during that time. Fear and shame kept him from asking Hermione what had happened, even after all these years. He did remember the excruciating physical pain, the unbearable headaches, the frightening hallucinations and the shouting and pleading.

"Hermione, please, I just need one. Just one. And that will be all – I can be to Knockturn Alley and back before evening. I swear I will come back here. Just this once, please. Please Hermione, I need this." He was so desperate. He was so sure he would surely die without one more. Just one more.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry, just let me go you stupid bitch," he raged. He started for her.

"Expelliarmus! I'm sorry." And he fell to the ground.

Hermione would hold him and rock him. She would run her small hands through his messy hair. She told him she would never leave him again, but even in that state, he knew that when she wasn't with him, she was with Weasley. Her lips would touch his forehead and his cheeks, but never his lips. He had some hazy images of her touching him far more intimately, but he knew she never would have lowered herself to that. She told him stories, and on occasion read to him. Hermione never mentioned that time, and Malfoy thought it prudent to do the same.

He also developed a strange relationship with Molly Weasley of all people. Her motherly nature wouldn't let him suffer alone, and it appeared she didn't want Hermione to deal with the brunt of his withdrawal. Malfoy cared very deeply for her, even if he couldn't stand the sight of her youngest son. She still sent him a hand-knit jumper every Christmas, and he made sure to send her a box of her favorite chocolates.

Once fully recovered, he did nominal, somewhat meaningless work for the Order. Hermione was more deeply involved, and she told him nothing of her work. Most members of the Order did not trust him and regarded him with suspicion. People left rooms when he entered them. Perhaps renouncing his father and that world wasn't enough. He supposed he didn't help matters much – he had a tendency to get rather defensive and short with people.

"It's not my fault you're a fucking idiot Potter."

Pushing, shoving.

"What do you two think you're doing?" Hermione shrieked, stepping between them. The two men kept trying to reach around her to get to the other. "Stop this now."

"Malfoy's just miffed because the only use he is around here is making meals. With the women."

A sneer, more shoving, and an upset Hermione.

The only people that accepted him without question were Hermione and Molly. Hagrid, Dumbledore and Lupin were always kind to him, but he always thought he could see a little wariness in their eyes. The five of them were the only ones who didn't openly look at him with hatred. It was a strange lot he knew, but he still cared for them. He remembered hearing Hagrid gruffly defending him to a most irate Weasley. Neither man knew he stood just a few feet away. He hadn't seen Hagrid in years – he had moved to France to be near Madame Maxime. Perhaps he should write to his old friend.

"Yeh don' know wha' the boy's been through Ron. Give 'im a chance."

"You obviously don't know him Hagrid. He's a bleeding Malfoy. I would bet my broomstick that he's a spy. He's gotten close to Hermione so he can infiltrate the Order. Merlin knows I've tried to talk to Hermione about it, but she just won't listen. She can be so stubborn. I just don't understand why she can't see what everyone else sees." It was apparent Weasley was very angry with his dear girlfriend.

"Yeh don' know tha' Ron. He's a good h'eart. Bit confused, mind yeh, but a good h'eart. An' it's ob'vious to anyone he cares fer our 'ermione."

A snort and a switching of tactics. "Yeah well, she just feels sorry for him. I guess it was a natural progression. House elves to Malfoy. And besides, she only befriended him in the first place because Dumbledore ordered her to. It isn't real," Weasley said most maliciously.

"Ron. Yeh know tha's not true. She cares fer 'im too."

"No. She. Doesn't." And with that, Weasley stormed off.

Malfoy never could shake the niggling thought that he was indeed her charity case and only hung around him to make sure he would be alright. Of course, asking her what he meant to her was out of the question. Malfoy hated 12 Grimmauld Place.

Malfoy had disgustingly romantic notions about the final battle. It seemed everyone expected some valorous all-encompassing battle. He would save her, or die for her. He was going to be her hero, and this thought carried him through that difficult time. He would show her that he was for real; he wasn't using her for anything. It wasn't going to be some sort of. . . maudlin declaration of ever lasting love. No, what he felt for her then was different from love. Perhaps he just didn't like the word. It was an insufficient word – it just didn't properly describe how he felt about her.

The final battle, however, was anti-climatic. Malfoy ate dinner with Hermione, the Weasley's and various other members of the Order when it happened. Potter said he was going to the market for the evening's dessert and never returned. It appeared only Dumbledore knew what Potter was doing at the moment. Potter quietly defeated the Dark Lord and then disappeared, ostensibly to Wales it seemed. And then it was all over. He supposed he wasn't meant to be her hero.

"It's over?"

A smile. "It's over. Isn't it wonderful?" Hermione gushed.

A quick impromptu embrace – the kind the receiver doesn't feel the giver really wants to give. And then she ran to Weasley, laughing and wrapping her arms and legs around him, as he twirled her around the generally happy room. He never saw two people who looked happier together. Malfoy turned away.

Malfoy raised his gaze from the sink back to the mirror. His jaw tightened, and his face hardened. He needed to stop drinking; he really didn't need Hermione to save him yet again. It was getting ridiculous.

Without Hermione, he was nothing. Malfoy realized now that he was little better with her, always yearning for something more. Her chaste friendship could not make him happy no matter how hard she tried. Besides, what could he give her? He hated Weasley for not giving Hermione what she deserved, but Malfoy could do no better. He was half a man at best – full of anger, pain, and confusion. If he were to actually win her heart, Malfoy would probably just drag her down with him. He shook his head – he was thinking entirely too much again.

Spring term would be over in three months. He would render his resignation to Dumbledore tomorrow and leave here when term ended.

He would leave her. He could handle himself – he wasn't quite as weak as he once was. He simply could not watch her re-ignite her relationship with Weasley. Even if they hadn't gotten back together, there was no reason to stay. She had not come to see him since she left the hospital wing. True, he should have gone to her, but friendships were supposed to be reciprocal; she could have come to him. Potter had been right; their relationship was fucked-up.

A tortured smile gripped his lips. It would not be easy to be apart from her, but it was getting too painful to be near her. Perhaps he should thank Jamison. Without that boy and his violent actions, he never would have come to such a conclusion. That night in the hospital wing changed everything, and he never would have acknowledged his need to leave. He would tell her of his plans of course. It would be rude not to. Malfoy adamantly refused to admit the fact that he sincerely hoped she would give him a reason to stay by her side forever.

Yes. He would leave. It was the only way. He didn't expect to find happiness on the way – he'd given up on that ridiculous notion long ago. But he might find something else. Something somewhere had to have some modicum of meaning for him. Meaning – it was a noble thing. Wasn't it?

Hermione could no longer give him meaning, if she ever really did. She was. . . pain. He was tired of pain. So very tired of pain.

Malfoy stumbled out of his bathroom to his living area. It was already night – he must have been asleep in the bathroom for quite some time. He would write his letter now. His head hurt so very much. He spotted a bottle of firewhiskey on his table. Forgetting all about his letter, he focused on the bottle, entranced by its very existence and the numbness of spirit it promised. He walked to his table and ran a finger along the cool glass in the way he wanted to run a finger along Hermione's body. Taking a deep swig, he decided he deserved this bender, and he would consider quitting tomorrow. Right now, this was all he had.

After he drank as much as he felt he needed, and destroyed what belongings he had that needed to be destroyed, Malfoy fell into bed, desperately hoping that when he woke, he and the world would be different. It was not the first time he'd held such a hope.

Malfoy groaned as he woke. He didn't want to open his eyes and find the world had not changed. And besides, his head was killing him.

Or not.

Something soft threaded itself through his hair and gently pressed against his skull. It would start on one side of his head and move to the other, and then, it would repeat the motion, hypnotizing him. He had no wish to open his eyes; he had an unfounded fear that if he faced the day, the pleasant sensation would stop. A moan escaped his lips and he leaned into the touch – this was possibly the most comforting and yet erotic thing he had ever experienced. He heard the turning of a book page.

He was on his side pressed against something soft and warm. As much as he didn't wish to break this trance, curiosity got the better of him and he blinked a few times. Sun rays streamed through his window and ended on his bed. He saw a body – Hermione's body. The curtains on his open window fluttered gently against a breeze. A distinct sun ray formed a morphing triangular pattern across her hips and thighs. Although he couldn't see her face, he knew it was her. Who else would it be? She was leaning against the headboard with one hand occupied in his hair, and the other with a book. He couldn't see what she was reading. She was wearing an old pair of jeans and an equally old faded shirt. He noticed then that his hand rested on her stomach.

What was she doing here? In his bed, with her hand caressing his head no less? How many times had he imagined her in his bed? How many times had he called out to her in this very bed when he released a painful erection? And now she was here. The thought that she belonged here came unbidden to his mind. His whole being was sluggish and dull. He would think on these things later. Right now, he had other things occupying his mind.

Malfoy's breathing changed. It was no longer the deep lazy breathes of waking, but it was the short ragged breaths of want. It wasn't necessarily a sexual desire, although there was that as well. But it was the want to be a part of her, a part of her life, which. . . well, he supposed it was sexual when you got right down to it.

Touching her skin was an absolute necessity. Malfoy closed his eyes, as though this would validate what he was about to do, and as discreetly as possibly, he slid his hand beneath her shirt to glide over her silky smooth skin. She was so warm.

Her hand pressed more deeply against his head and a finger reached down to stoke his brow. His thumb grazed over some imperfection on her side. He stroked what he assumed was a mole for some time. He never knew she had a mole there.

Another page turned. His hand moved on, anxious to explore more of her body. He let his hand move over her slightly rounded belly. He could not get enough air into his lungs. The other side of the castle could probably hear him breathing.

His big hand splayed against her belly and slowly began moving in a circular pattern, pressing into her body. Malfoy had never liked circles much; they never took you anywhere, just back where you started. But feeling her this way convinced him to rethink his attitude regarding circles.

A single finger, starting at his forehead, moved its way over his scalp and down his neck. Her hand played with the hair at the nape of his neck. He couldn't keep another groan from escaping his lips.

Another page turned. This was altogether too wonderful. He clenched his teeth. He could not allow himself to lose all semblance of control. He really didn't want to frighten her or drive her away. Malfoy sincerely hoped she couldn't feel his excitement. But it was so much more than a physical need. It was just as intimate as it was arousing. No other woman had ever been able to awaken such. . . tenderness from him. Of course, he had never loved anyone the way he loved Hermione.

The letter of resignation and Weasley didn't even make a notoriety appearance on his consciousness. She was the only thing he could think of at the moment, and he found, to his own amazement, that it didn't bother him a bit. He moved his hand lower, relishing every moment, every feeling. His thumb toyed with her belly button, and he felt Hermione's breathing quicken as well, in the rising and falling of her belly.

He stopped when he reached the waistband of her jeans. Desperation ripped through him and he shuttered. The hand on his head stilled. They both held their breath in anticipation. He wanted to go lower, deeper, but that was unacceptable and unethical on so many levels.

Seemingly, on its own volition, his pinky finger slid beneath the waistband of her jeans and knickers, gently caressed her and then merely rested there, happily secure in the knowledge that this was close enough. It would have to be enough. That particular offending hand would not violate her any further.

He needed to be closer.

Hesitation.

Then, rather awkwardly, Malfoy grabbed her around her middle and pulled her to him, holding her tightly. She squeaked in surprise, but didn't try to move away from him. Her book hit the floor with a whacking sound. He buried a hand in her hair and nuzzled his face into her sweet smelling neck. He pressed his lips to the soft skin of her neck, but did not kiss her, or move them along the skin of her delectable throat. Her body stiffened.

"I've missed you," he croaked. And he did. How could he have thought of leaving her last night? The day seemed different. She made everything different.

"I know." It seemed her hand never left his head, and it continued stoking him. However, there was a certain stiffness in her actions and in her body. He was making her uncomfortable. Hermione could still be a bit prudish at times, especially when Malfoy was involved. Weasley and Hermione could be rather. . .demonstrative in their affection for one another, but she never let Malfoy get too close. There were various hugs and touches, but to Malfoy, they seemed very benign and innocent. He always thought it was her way of telling him they would never be more than friends.

Weasley – that was why she was trying to move from him. Fuck! He'd forgotten they were probably back together. The world was back to what it was before. He suddenly didn't want her near him again. She was delicately trying to squirm her way out of his embrace.

How could he have let himself believe that she wanted this? Malfoy released her in an effort to ease her discomfort, but did not look at her face. He rested his gaze on the frayed edge of her t-shirt. It hung loosely off her elbow. He waited for her to move away. Yet again. As they always did.

To his great surprise and delight, she didn't move away from him, and she actually nestled herself against him, and rested her head on his chest. It seemed he had just been holding her a bit too tightly or awkwardly.

"I've missed you too," she sighed, wrapping an arm around him.

He couldn't keep himself from smiling, and he once again buried his hand in the wild mass that was her hair.

"I'm so glad you're here," he said sincerely.

"Me too." They rested in comparative silence for a few lovely minutes. He played with her hair, pulling this strand and then that, and she fingered a button on his shirt. He did wonder about Weasley.

"Erm, I saw Weasley the other day at Hogwarts," he said.

"Yes, he came to see me and make sure I was alright." She wasn't making all this any easier.

"So, uh, how is he?"

"I don't really know." She propped her head on his chest and looked up at him. She reached up and brushed her hand against the stubble on his chin.

"Is this your new look?" she asked. "I'm not sure if I like it," she said all this very playfully. She could not divert him however; she had not answered his question.

Her smile faded. She scooted herself a little closer to him. The world stopped. He watched, somewhat wide-eyed as she leaned in and placed three light kisses on the stubble of his jawline. "You have nothing to worry about," she whispered seeming to know just what he needed to hear. She pulled away.

"I brought you something." The moment was over. She hesitated and then eased herself off the bed. She walked away from him, but he did not move.

A cup of what he assumed was coffee was offered to him and she sat at the edge of the bed. He sat up and took it from her.

"Here, this will make you feel better." Better than this? Okay, his head did still hurt, his stomach churned, from what he couldn't exactly tell, and he overall felt sluggish and tired, but he hadn't felt this good in a long time.

He obediently took the cup and drank. A burning taste not associated with coffee razed down his throat. He coughed and sputtered. She just laughed.

"What the bloody hell was that?" he asked, still coughing. He violently shook his head, which increased her laughter.

"It's coffee laced with Pepper-Up Potion. I asked Poppy for a good hangover remedy, and she recommended this. Do you feel better?"

He grudgingly admitted that he did. His head felt clear and alert. He still didn't like being tricked in such a manner though and he seriously didn't like the idea of steam coming out of his ears for the rest of the day. In his opinion, it looked undignified.

"I never would have guessed that Pomfrey gets pissed."

She threw her head back and laughed and looked back down at him. "Things are rarely what they seem."

"No, I guess they aren't." But Malfoy already knew that.

She played with the fringe on one of his blankets. "Listen, I actually came here to invite you to join me for the spring holiday. I'm going to visit the Potter's for the week, and I would really like it if you came with me." She turned and looked at him expectantly.

"A week at the Potter's?" Malfoy wasn't quite expecting that. A week at the Potter's sounded more like purgatory than a holiday.

"Hmm-mm. I really think you'll enjoy it. They have a wonderful house in the country. And their kids are so much fun. I know you'll just love them."

"I don't like kids," he grumbled. He really didn't want to go, but he could tell by the shy and hopeful look on Hermione's face that this was important to her. Argument would be fruitless in the end, especially as he was delighted she wanted him to share in a bigger part of her life.

"Liar," Hermione grinned.

"They're whiny and smelly."

"Well then, you ought to get along with them beautifully, as you whine all the time, and I'm not even going to attempt to tell you what you smell like at the moment," she said grinning.

Malfoy realized then that he had been wearing the same clothes for the last forty-eight hours or so.

"Please. I really want to spend the week with you," she said, taking his hand. He grasped it tightly.

"Okay." The world did seem different, but Malfoy wasn't entirely sure if that was indeed the case.