Weeks passed, yet Draco had cause to wonder whether the fever had ever truly left him. It seemed to manifest itself now and again, usually in the form of an involuntary shiver and that strange feeling of weakness he had had when he'd first awoken to find Snape in his room- brought on, more often than not, by meeting Granger's eyes across a classroom, or in the Great Hall at mealtimes.
It was a damn nuisance, was what it was.
If there was any consolation to be had, it was that he saw in those dark eyes, on the occasions they met his, a depth of unease that matched his own. She had been unsettled by their Valentine night encounter as well, it seemed.
Small consolation, that.
The fact was that he just couldn't seem to get Granger out of his mind. And it was driving him to distraction. He had mistaken the due date on an important essay in Transfiguration, had made numerous small slip-ups in Potions, normally his best and favorite subject, and had, just this past Saturday, lost the snitch to Potter once again because his mind, as he had flown, had been elsewhere- three bloody guesses where. Thankfully Slytherin still had a shot at the Quidditch Cup due to his earlier outstanding performance against the other Houses, but... this was bloody ridiculous.
He found himself sneaking glances at her every chance he got, to the detriment of his schoolwork, to the detriment of his focus on Quidditch, to the detriment of his fucking sanity, by God- trying to catch her with her guard down in order to get a glimpse of that prettiness she possessed when she wasn't glaring at him. She was not beautiful, not in the conventional sense, like Lavender Brown or Susan Bones, But Hermione's prettiness- it got under a man's skin, damn it all to hell. And it was as rare as cool, fresh water in a desert and dear God, he found himself thirsting for it.
And oh, how he fought it. You had better believe that he fought it. Going into an arranged marriage was one thing- though he had never been overjoyed by the prospect of marriage to Pansy, he had never strenuously objected to it, either, for he had always accepted that it was a given, and what was the use of railing against something that was a given- that was going to happen anyway, as inexorably as the Sun rises each morning?
But then, he had never felt this sort of (unwelcome as it was) longing for another before. Had never allowed himself to do so, had stomped on any such stirrings in himself the second he became aware of them, and for just this reason. More complications in his life he didn't need, thank you very bloody much. He had enough on his plate, and he was going to marry Pansy and do right by his family, period, end of discussion. So why invite the havoc that a love affair would wreak into his life? If he couldn't love his future wife- and he had tried, but without success- then he would love no one. It was simpler that way.
So going into an arranged marriage was one thing, but this- going into an arranged marriage when he suddenly and inexplicably and desperately wanted (and what a struggle that had been, to even admit to himself that he wanted her) a girl who was so damnably far beneath him in station- wanted her with an intensity that defied all his efforts to stomp it out- that was something else. That felt like... like dying.
And goddamn Snape straight to hell and back again for those fucking cryptic remarks he had had to go and make, when Draco was clearly not well, not himself, and therefore most susceptible to such traitorous notions as the Potions Master had put in his head and which he couldn't, no matter how hard he tried, seem to banish. Notions which were, entirely against his will, taking root and growing, whispering to him in the last moment before sleep at night and the first drowsy moments of waking.
It was maddening.
There was just one thing for it.
He had to talk to her again.
00000
The library was deserted.
Well, nearly deserted. Deserted but for Draco.
He had expected it to be so, seeing as it was Friday night. Even Madam Pince had retired for the evening- however, this late in the term the library was open to seventh-year students twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, to encourage studying for the upcoming N.E.W.T. exams. No matter what time of the day or night, no seventh-year student could be penalized for being in the library. Getting to and from it, however, was another matter. Filch and Mrs. Norris still reigned supreme in the hallways.
Nevertheless, Draco, hunched over a small table in the corner with books and parchments (which he could not possibly concentrate on) spread out before him, fully expected Hermione to put in an appearance.
And he wasn't disappointed.
He was puzzled at first when the heavy wooden door, barred with iron, creaked open and then closed again, apparently of its own accord. Then his pale eyes widened in amazement as Hermione appeared out of thin air, whisking what could only be a real, honest-to-God invisibility cloak off herself in a quick, practiced motion. Draco was far from stupid. He quite suddenly found himself back in his third year, outside the Shrieking Shack in Hogsmeade Village. Mud in his hair.
"Potter," he muttered under his breath. "I knew it, I fucking knew it. Bastard!"
Hermione took no notice of him in his distant and shadowy corner. He had neither expected nor wanted her to; that was why he had selected this particular spot. He wanted the advantage of being the one to initiate the conversation, on his own terms.
The library was dim, in any event. Though seventh-year students were allowed to use its resources at any time of the day or night, no provisions were made for them in terms of lighting. It was assumed, and correctly so (except for a few notable cases such as Crabbe and Goyle), that they were well enough versed in magic by now to provide their own sources of light.
This Hermione did, igniting her wand with a simple "Lumos", then murmuring another spell that allowed her to adjust the amount of light put out by it. She increased the wand's light output until the entire table she had selected for a workspace- which was considerably larger that the one at which Draco lurked- was bathed in its golden glow. She settled into a chair with her back to Draco, wadded up her silvery cloak, and stuffed it into her bag, from which she then began retrieving a staggering number of books, as well as ample parchment and writing supplies.
Silently, Draco stood up.
His heart was hammering in his chest, but damned if he was going to give her the slightest inkling of how her very presence was affecting him. He schooled his face into a perfect mask of cool disdain, took a deep, bracing breath... and stood right where he was for the next ten minutes, staring at her, utterly incapable of taking the first step in her direction.
Well, he reflected bitterly, here was a first. Cool, self-possessed Draco Malfoy, the Slytherin prince, flustered- (there was no other word for it, not if he were to be brutally honest with himself- and one thing about the almost-man that Draco had grown to be was that he was brutally honest, with himself as well as others)- so, flustered by a girl. Flustered so badly he was frozen in place, unable to approach her. And by not just any girl, either, but a Gryffindor, the best friend of his arch-nemesis, and a mudblood.
God help him.
His Housemates would laugh him to scorn.
And his father-
Well, best not to dwell on what his father's reaction would be.
"Get a hold of yourself, Malfoy," he growled under his breath, steeled himself, and strode over to where she sat with her back to him in the midst of her little pool of wandlight.
"Evening, Granger," he drawled, when he was virtually at her elbow, causing her to gasp and start.
She whirled in her chair to face him, forced by his proximity, looming over her as he was, to tip her head way back in order to look up at him.
"Malfoy," she said, her voice little more than a whisper. He saw a flash of fear behind those dark eyes of hers, but she quickly mastered it- in fact, someone less adept than he at hiding their own emotions never would have picked up on it in the first place. To her credit, she did not reach for her wand- she stood, instead, bringing herself up to his level, never breaking eye contact as she did so.
"You startled me," she said.
Draco shrugged; a deliberately nonchalant gesture.
"You interrupted me," he replied. "I was here first." He indicated the small table at which he had been sitting, and felt her tense up immediately.
"Did you see me come in?" she asked quickly.
Did I see her come in? Well now, that IS the question.
Invisibility cloaks were strictly forbidden at Hogwarts, he knew. That the Head Girl, no less, was using one... It mattered little whether this was her cloak and Potter had borrowed it that fateful day in third year, or whether it was his and she was borrowing it this night. (Invisibility cloaks were so rare that felt sure they couldn't each have one of their own.) Now that he had concrete proof of its existence, he could wrap them both around his-
"No," he said flatly. "My back was to the door."
All right, why in the hell had he just said that?
She relaxed visibly, and a long moment of awkward silence ensued. Finally-
"Would care to join me studying, Malfoy?" Hermione asked abruptly. "Your table over there looks a bit cramped. There's room to spread out here, and our wands, put together, would create a much better light."
Draco said nothing; the truth was, so unexpected was her invitation that he could think of nothing appropriate to say. Nothing that wouldn't make him sound like some bedamned Hufflepuff idiot. But he managed to get his feet to work. He crossed to the other side of the table, pulled out the chair opposite Hermione's, waved his left hand toward his own table, and murmured, "Accio".
His wand flew immediately into his outstretched hand, while his belongings quickly and neatly packed themselves into his bag, and followed. Hermione watched this display with one eyebrow arched, but declined to comment.
Draco placed his wand in the center of the table next to Hermione's, and indeed, the two of them together put out a light that was much healthier to read by.
Before they could settle into studying, though, Draco again reached toward the wands- but instead of retrieving his own, this time he picked up Hermione's. He made a show of inspecting it while she watched guardedly.
"So how's the wand been working for you, Granger?" he asked, twirling it idly in his fingers as he spoke.
"Fine, Malfoy, I thank you," Hermione replied in clipped tones.
"I'm glad to see that you got over that little snit you were in," Draco remarked coolly, "and true to my word, it hasn't given you any trouble, has it?"
"No," she said, positively grinding the word out from between clenched teeth.
Draco thought that she was beginning to regret inviting him to join her. The thought amused him. Smitten he may have been, but he was still- well, Draco.
Draco flicked the wand with practiced ease, causing it to emit a shower of green and silver sparks, then placed it back in its spot beside his own.
Noticing her continued glare, however, he remarked in a deceptively casual tone, "you haven't gotten over it, though- not really. You're still bothered. Why?"
Hermione glanced from him to the steadily glowing wand and back again, a battle clearly playing out behind her eyes. For a moment, it looked as though she would not answer, but then, abruptly, she capitulated.
"I've been doing some research into the subject," she said, speaking rapidly, and toying nervously with her dark hair, which she had piled into a loose bun before embarking on her foray to the library, but which was now escaping every which way.
Draco couldn't hide the smile that flitted across his lips at those oh-so- characteristic words- but she failed to notice in her clearly agitated state.
"And?" he prompted mildly.
"And," she said unhappily, "I discovered that when dark magic is used to repair a wand- and you never denied that you used dark magic- the person who repaired the wand will retain a link to it. In other words, even when I am holding my own wand, you could control it, if you saw fit. So it's not really my wand anymore, is it? It's more like... ours."
Holy shit. Draco hadn't even known about that particular side effect of dark magic enhanced wand repair. Well, this was interesting.
He wasn't even consciously aware of the sudden smirk on his face- smirking was second nature to him, after all- but Hermione caught it, right enough.
"Oh, that makes you happy, does it, Malfoy?" she exploded. "Makes you feel just so superior, eh, knowing that you have that kind of power over me! Great, go on and gloat! I don't know why I ever-" She began stuffing her books and parchments randomly into her bag, her movements quick and jerky with anger. Her voice was muffled, hair falling forward across her face as she crammed things in.
"I'm leaving," she said, unnecessarily, as her intent was perfectly clear, and she swung away from him toward the door, without ever looking up. "Just do me a favor Malfoy, and stay far, far away-"
Draco was around the table and blocking her exit before she could finish speaking or take a single step toward the door. Never knowing what possessed him to do it, he reached out and grasped her by both shoulders; she tossed her hair back, out of her face, and raised her eyes to his. With an unexpected pang, he saw that there were tears standing in her eyes, but she was holding them in check with fierce determination, and glaring defiantly at him.
"Don't go," he said quietly. "I-" he almost choked on the next word- "I'm sorry if you think that I was... teasing you. I give you my solemn word (the next part of the oath usually went 'as a pureblood and a Malfoy', but he omitted it, rightly guessing that that would only serve to alienate her further) that I didn't know about that when I fixed your wand... though I would have fixed it anyway, if I had. The point is, now that I do know- I won't use that knowledge against you. I promise. Now sit down. If one of us has to go, it will be me. I don't want to chase you away."
She stood stock still for a moment, clearly struggling for composure, then pulled back, out of his grasp, took a deep, shuddery breath, and wiped angrily at her eyes. "I hate crying," she remarked in a barely audible voice, more to herself, it seemed, than to him.
Just as she started to turn away again, back toward the table this time, Draco surprised himself once more, reaching out again, but not, this time, to grasp her shoulders. No, this time it was a far more intimate gesture; he gently grasped her chin, bringing her face around toward his again, meeting her eyes, which were wide and suddenly uncertain.
"It's not just the wand, is it?" he asked. "It's the whole thing- you're not over that night, period." And, unconsciously reenacting what he had done to Pansy in his delirium, he traced a finger over the cheekbone that had been so badly bruised that night, then ran his thumb lightly over her lips. There had been blood there that night- bright ruby blood, not muddy at all... and she was still an inferior being, and his duty was to his family and his family's sacred cause, and he had to keep reminding himself of that... but God, he wanted her. He could never love her- it was the worst sort of heresy to even allow that concept into his mind- but he could want her, he decided, could and did- oh, how he did. He wanted her right now on the table they'd both been sitting at, wanted to-
Enough already.
He dropped his hands.
But God, there was something about this girl- her prettiness that wasn't quite beauty, her vulnerability that she tried so hard to hide beneath that exterior of know-it-all bossiness, her innocence- a quality that shone through even when she was deliberately breaking the rules- sneaking about the school in an invisibility cloak, and Head Girl, no less- that just inspired lust in a man.
He frowned, remembering her disheveled state that night. Yes, there was something about this girl that inspired lust in a man, and Crabbe and Goyle were prone, after all, to acting on their basest animal instincts.
"Granger," he said suddenly, "tell me what really happened that night. Your clothes were ripped. Did they-?"
She took a step back, then turned away from him, wrapping her arms about herself- for warmth? For protection?
"I told you, no," she said in a flat voice.
Draco suddenly understood.
"But not for lack of trying... right?"
"Not for lack of trying," she echoed in a whisper, then turned back toward him just enough so that he could see her face in profile. "No, not for lack of trying," she said again in a stronger voice, "that's why I fought so hard. I told you I would rather have died, and I meant it. I thought, fine, if I fight back and they kill me for it, so be it; it's better than the alternative. I-" she trailed off for a moment, staring into space; then, just as he was about to move toward her again, she seemed to come back to herself and faced him fully once more. The expression in her eyes now was very close to panic. "I, um, I really do have to go," she said, the words tumbling over each other in her sudden haste. "I'm sorry." And she brushed past him and virtually bolted for the door.
Draco started to pursue her, then thought better of it. She really did seem overwrought- he should allow her to go in peace. "Granger," he called, instead, as she reached the door; she paused there, though she did not turn back toward him. He thought carefully about how to phrase his parting words.
"Be careful of Filch," he said at last. "You've a long walk back. It would be best... not to be seen."
She made no reply, just opened the door, slipped soundlessly though it, and was gone.
Draco hoped she had caught his meaning and would, even now, be concealing herself beneath the invisibility cloak. It wouldn't do to have her run into that bastard Filch... or anyone else, either, for that matter.
It was, of course, two particular someone elses that were occupying his thoughts at the moment.
They had tried to rape her.
He realized that both his fists and his jaw were clenched painfully tight.
They had tried to rape her. And she had made it clear that if they had succeeded, it would have been, for her, a fate worse than death. She had feared they would kill her for fighting, yet still she had fought back.
They had tried to rape her- and why, goddamn it, WHY- he lashed out suddenly, driving his fist into the end of the bookcase nearest him- did it even matter to him? Her welfare was supposed to matter to him about as much as that of someone else's house elf. So what if they had raped her? So what if they had destroyed her beautiful, fragile innocence? He wasn't supposed to care. What was more, he didn't want to care- he had not asked for this complication in his life. She was only a mudblood.
But, a corner of his mind whispered, she's your mudblood now.
Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.
All right, well maybe it wasn't so bad if he looked at it from that perspective; in terms of ownership. Loving an inferior creature was unacceptable, but one could own an inferior creature- take house elves, for example- and when one did, then it was natural to look out for one's property. So if he approached the issue like that- staked a claim to the mudblood, made her his next official conquest- then he could tell Crabbe and Goyle not to go near her again, and they would listen... they had bloody well better, if they knew what was good for them.
He gave a barely perceptible nod, having decided on a course of action, then returned to the table they had so briefly shared and began packing up his things- by hand, this time, as there was no longer anyone to show off for. There was little point in staying in the library now that she was gone; he could study in more comfort in his private Head Boy room.
He was on the verge of leaving when something caught his eye; a gleam of white on the floor, in the shadow of the table. Stooping, he retrieved a scroll of parchment and, unrolling it, was met by the sight of rows and rows of Hermione's neat writing, to the tune of three feet in all. A potions assignment due at the end of next week; she had apparently dropped it in her haste to pack her school bag.
He thrust it into his bag along with his own parchments and headed back to the dungeons. Draco needed no invisibility cloak to avoid detection by Filch; he was stealthy by nature.
00000
An hour later, he sat at his desk, writing. His penmanship was as neat as Granger's, though more masculine. He wrote left-handed; it had thrilled his father no end when it had first come to light that his only child was a southpaw; it was a trait highly prized among Slytherins, as the great Salazar himself had been left-handed.
Dear Granger, he wrote, a slight smirk playing about his lips, find enclosed with this note your potions assignment, which I discovered still in the library after you left. I took the liberty of reading through it and regret to inform you that you made a grievous error in the fourth paragraph down, when listing ingredients for your proposed potion. One of the ingredients you have listed is incorrect, and will alter the effect of the potion somewhat severely; instead of turning the subject blue, as intended, the potion will, as you have written it, turn the subject inside out, resulting in a rather unpleasant death. Try it out on Longbottom, if you don't believe me; that will be no great loss. Suffice it to say, Professor Snape will give no credit to this assignment as it is, and I can only imagine the intense pleasure it will give him to upbraid you in front of the entire class. I am not going to tell you which ingredient is wrong; I am most interested to see just how clever you really are, and to that end, will be watching Snape with great interest on Friday, to see whether he accepts your work, which will of course mean that you have rectified the mistake on your own, or rejects it. DM
He sat for a moment deep in thought, then added, as a postscript, If you make a habit of studying in the library after hours, perhaps we could do so together a few evenings a week; I think that we could be beneficial to one another as we prepare for our upcoming N.E.W.T. exams. Clearly you could use a bit of tutelage in Advanced Potions, and I admit that I am not equally strong in all subjects either; I would like to take advantage of your expertise in Arithmancy and Ancient Runes. Think it over, and let me know.
This done, he rolled Hermione's assignment and his letter into a single tube of parchment, tied it off with a green satin ribbon, and with a lazy flick of his left hand, caused the latch on his Eagle Owl's cage to lift and the cage door to fly open. The handsome animal came immediately to its master, alighting on the desk in front of Draco and presenting a leg to accept the message it was to deliver.
"Take this up to Granger, the Head Girl," he instructed, "and do not nip her, do you understand me? You may be delivering correspondence to her somewhat frequently for a while, and you are never to nip her, Jupiter. You will recognize her for a mudblood... but she's a cut above the rest. Is that clear?"
The stately owl inclined its head for an instant in a gesture of acquiescence, and Draco stood, walked over to his room's single leaded glass window, and threw it open, relishing the cool air of the early spring night as his owl swooped past him and vanished, flying almost straight up, toward the top of the castle. Draco was immensely privileged to have both a window and an owl in his room; windows were hard to come by in the dungeons, and only the Head Boy and Girl were allowed to keep owls in their rooms rather than the owlry, as only the Head Boy and Girl had private rooms in which to keep them.
He paced the room until Jupiter returned, then cursed a blue streak at the fact that he bore no reply. Not even a quick note of thanks to him for saving her ass in potions, and certainly not any indication of whether she would take him up on his suggestion of studying together.
The damned mudblood was playing hard-to-get.
At length, he flopped down in his armchair, ran both hands through his silvery hair, closed his eyes, and, settling back deeper into the dark green plushness of the chair, finally allowed a tiny smirk to settle on his lips.
The damn mudblood was playing hard-to-get. Well, so be it. It would only make the conquest sweeter in the end, for in the end he would get what he wanted. Draco Malfoy always got what he wanted. Well, except for Weasley's head on a silver platter and Potter's on a gold one, but... he was still working on that. Perhaps he could even put that particular dream on the back burner for a while, so as to devote more energy to this one. It would be worth it in the end.
He wanted her- that was all, just wanted her- so badly.
Victory would be so sweet.
It was a damn nuisance, was what it was.
If there was any consolation to be had, it was that he saw in those dark eyes, on the occasions they met his, a depth of unease that matched his own. She had been unsettled by their Valentine night encounter as well, it seemed.
Small consolation, that.
The fact was that he just couldn't seem to get Granger out of his mind. And it was driving him to distraction. He had mistaken the due date on an important essay in Transfiguration, had made numerous small slip-ups in Potions, normally his best and favorite subject, and had, just this past Saturday, lost the snitch to Potter once again because his mind, as he had flown, had been elsewhere- three bloody guesses where. Thankfully Slytherin still had a shot at the Quidditch Cup due to his earlier outstanding performance against the other Houses, but... this was bloody ridiculous.
He found himself sneaking glances at her every chance he got, to the detriment of his schoolwork, to the detriment of his focus on Quidditch, to the detriment of his fucking sanity, by God- trying to catch her with her guard down in order to get a glimpse of that prettiness she possessed when she wasn't glaring at him. She was not beautiful, not in the conventional sense, like Lavender Brown or Susan Bones, But Hermione's prettiness- it got under a man's skin, damn it all to hell. And it was as rare as cool, fresh water in a desert and dear God, he found himself thirsting for it.
And oh, how he fought it. You had better believe that he fought it. Going into an arranged marriage was one thing- though he had never been overjoyed by the prospect of marriage to Pansy, he had never strenuously objected to it, either, for he had always accepted that it was a given, and what was the use of railing against something that was a given- that was going to happen anyway, as inexorably as the Sun rises each morning?
But then, he had never felt this sort of (unwelcome as it was) longing for another before. Had never allowed himself to do so, had stomped on any such stirrings in himself the second he became aware of them, and for just this reason. More complications in his life he didn't need, thank you very bloody much. He had enough on his plate, and he was going to marry Pansy and do right by his family, period, end of discussion. So why invite the havoc that a love affair would wreak into his life? If he couldn't love his future wife- and he had tried, but without success- then he would love no one. It was simpler that way.
So going into an arranged marriage was one thing, but this- going into an arranged marriage when he suddenly and inexplicably and desperately wanted (and what a struggle that had been, to even admit to himself that he wanted her) a girl who was so damnably far beneath him in station- wanted her with an intensity that defied all his efforts to stomp it out- that was something else. That felt like... like dying.
And goddamn Snape straight to hell and back again for those fucking cryptic remarks he had had to go and make, when Draco was clearly not well, not himself, and therefore most susceptible to such traitorous notions as the Potions Master had put in his head and which he couldn't, no matter how hard he tried, seem to banish. Notions which were, entirely against his will, taking root and growing, whispering to him in the last moment before sleep at night and the first drowsy moments of waking.
It was maddening.
There was just one thing for it.
He had to talk to her again.
00000
The library was deserted.
Well, nearly deserted. Deserted but for Draco.
He had expected it to be so, seeing as it was Friday night. Even Madam Pince had retired for the evening- however, this late in the term the library was open to seventh-year students twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, to encourage studying for the upcoming N.E.W.T. exams. No matter what time of the day or night, no seventh-year student could be penalized for being in the library. Getting to and from it, however, was another matter. Filch and Mrs. Norris still reigned supreme in the hallways.
Nevertheless, Draco, hunched over a small table in the corner with books and parchments (which he could not possibly concentrate on) spread out before him, fully expected Hermione to put in an appearance.
And he wasn't disappointed.
He was puzzled at first when the heavy wooden door, barred with iron, creaked open and then closed again, apparently of its own accord. Then his pale eyes widened in amazement as Hermione appeared out of thin air, whisking what could only be a real, honest-to-God invisibility cloak off herself in a quick, practiced motion. Draco was far from stupid. He quite suddenly found himself back in his third year, outside the Shrieking Shack in Hogsmeade Village. Mud in his hair.
"Potter," he muttered under his breath. "I knew it, I fucking knew it. Bastard!"
Hermione took no notice of him in his distant and shadowy corner. He had neither expected nor wanted her to; that was why he had selected this particular spot. He wanted the advantage of being the one to initiate the conversation, on his own terms.
The library was dim, in any event. Though seventh-year students were allowed to use its resources at any time of the day or night, no provisions were made for them in terms of lighting. It was assumed, and correctly so (except for a few notable cases such as Crabbe and Goyle), that they were well enough versed in magic by now to provide their own sources of light.
This Hermione did, igniting her wand with a simple "Lumos", then murmuring another spell that allowed her to adjust the amount of light put out by it. She increased the wand's light output until the entire table she had selected for a workspace- which was considerably larger that the one at which Draco lurked- was bathed in its golden glow. She settled into a chair with her back to Draco, wadded up her silvery cloak, and stuffed it into her bag, from which she then began retrieving a staggering number of books, as well as ample parchment and writing supplies.
Silently, Draco stood up.
His heart was hammering in his chest, but damned if he was going to give her the slightest inkling of how her very presence was affecting him. He schooled his face into a perfect mask of cool disdain, took a deep, bracing breath... and stood right where he was for the next ten minutes, staring at her, utterly incapable of taking the first step in her direction.
Well, he reflected bitterly, here was a first. Cool, self-possessed Draco Malfoy, the Slytherin prince, flustered- (there was no other word for it, not if he were to be brutally honest with himself- and one thing about the almost-man that Draco had grown to be was that he was brutally honest, with himself as well as others)- so, flustered by a girl. Flustered so badly he was frozen in place, unable to approach her. And by not just any girl, either, but a Gryffindor, the best friend of his arch-nemesis, and a mudblood.
God help him.
His Housemates would laugh him to scorn.
And his father-
Well, best not to dwell on what his father's reaction would be.
"Get a hold of yourself, Malfoy," he growled under his breath, steeled himself, and strode over to where she sat with her back to him in the midst of her little pool of wandlight.
"Evening, Granger," he drawled, when he was virtually at her elbow, causing her to gasp and start.
She whirled in her chair to face him, forced by his proximity, looming over her as he was, to tip her head way back in order to look up at him.
"Malfoy," she said, her voice little more than a whisper. He saw a flash of fear behind those dark eyes of hers, but she quickly mastered it- in fact, someone less adept than he at hiding their own emotions never would have picked up on it in the first place. To her credit, she did not reach for her wand- she stood, instead, bringing herself up to his level, never breaking eye contact as she did so.
"You startled me," she said.
Draco shrugged; a deliberately nonchalant gesture.
"You interrupted me," he replied. "I was here first." He indicated the small table at which he had been sitting, and felt her tense up immediately.
"Did you see me come in?" she asked quickly.
Did I see her come in? Well now, that IS the question.
Invisibility cloaks were strictly forbidden at Hogwarts, he knew. That the Head Girl, no less, was using one... It mattered little whether this was her cloak and Potter had borrowed it that fateful day in third year, or whether it was his and she was borrowing it this night. (Invisibility cloaks were so rare that felt sure they couldn't each have one of their own.) Now that he had concrete proof of its existence, he could wrap them both around his-
"No," he said flatly. "My back was to the door."
All right, why in the hell had he just said that?
She relaxed visibly, and a long moment of awkward silence ensued. Finally-
"Would care to join me studying, Malfoy?" Hermione asked abruptly. "Your table over there looks a bit cramped. There's room to spread out here, and our wands, put together, would create a much better light."
Draco said nothing; the truth was, so unexpected was her invitation that he could think of nothing appropriate to say. Nothing that wouldn't make him sound like some bedamned Hufflepuff idiot. But he managed to get his feet to work. He crossed to the other side of the table, pulled out the chair opposite Hermione's, waved his left hand toward his own table, and murmured, "Accio".
His wand flew immediately into his outstretched hand, while his belongings quickly and neatly packed themselves into his bag, and followed. Hermione watched this display with one eyebrow arched, but declined to comment.
Draco placed his wand in the center of the table next to Hermione's, and indeed, the two of them together put out a light that was much healthier to read by.
Before they could settle into studying, though, Draco again reached toward the wands- but instead of retrieving his own, this time he picked up Hermione's. He made a show of inspecting it while she watched guardedly.
"So how's the wand been working for you, Granger?" he asked, twirling it idly in his fingers as he spoke.
"Fine, Malfoy, I thank you," Hermione replied in clipped tones.
"I'm glad to see that you got over that little snit you were in," Draco remarked coolly, "and true to my word, it hasn't given you any trouble, has it?"
"No," she said, positively grinding the word out from between clenched teeth.
Draco thought that she was beginning to regret inviting him to join her. The thought amused him. Smitten he may have been, but he was still- well, Draco.
Draco flicked the wand with practiced ease, causing it to emit a shower of green and silver sparks, then placed it back in its spot beside his own.
Noticing her continued glare, however, he remarked in a deceptively casual tone, "you haven't gotten over it, though- not really. You're still bothered. Why?"
Hermione glanced from him to the steadily glowing wand and back again, a battle clearly playing out behind her eyes. For a moment, it looked as though she would not answer, but then, abruptly, she capitulated.
"I've been doing some research into the subject," she said, speaking rapidly, and toying nervously with her dark hair, which she had piled into a loose bun before embarking on her foray to the library, but which was now escaping every which way.
Draco couldn't hide the smile that flitted across his lips at those oh-so- characteristic words- but she failed to notice in her clearly agitated state.
"And?" he prompted mildly.
"And," she said unhappily, "I discovered that when dark magic is used to repair a wand- and you never denied that you used dark magic- the person who repaired the wand will retain a link to it. In other words, even when I am holding my own wand, you could control it, if you saw fit. So it's not really my wand anymore, is it? It's more like... ours."
Holy shit. Draco hadn't even known about that particular side effect of dark magic enhanced wand repair. Well, this was interesting.
He wasn't even consciously aware of the sudden smirk on his face- smirking was second nature to him, after all- but Hermione caught it, right enough.
"Oh, that makes you happy, does it, Malfoy?" she exploded. "Makes you feel just so superior, eh, knowing that you have that kind of power over me! Great, go on and gloat! I don't know why I ever-" She began stuffing her books and parchments randomly into her bag, her movements quick and jerky with anger. Her voice was muffled, hair falling forward across her face as she crammed things in.
"I'm leaving," she said, unnecessarily, as her intent was perfectly clear, and she swung away from him toward the door, without ever looking up. "Just do me a favor Malfoy, and stay far, far away-"
Draco was around the table and blocking her exit before she could finish speaking or take a single step toward the door. Never knowing what possessed him to do it, he reached out and grasped her by both shoulders; she tossed her hair back, out of her face, and raised her eyes to his. With an unexpected pang, he saw that there were tears standing in her eyes, but she was holding them in check with fierce determination, and glaring defiantly at him.
"Don't go," he said quietly. "I-" he almost choked on the next word- "I'm sorry if you think that I was... teasing you. I give you my solemn word (the next part of the oath usually went 'as a pureblood and a Malfoy', but he omitted it, rightly guessing that that would only serve to alienate her further) that I didn't know about that when I fixed your wand... though I would have fixed it anyway, if I had. The point is, now that I do know- I won't use that knowledge against you. I promise. Now sit down. If one of us has to go, it will be me. I don't want to chase you away."
She stood stock still for a moment, clearly struggling for composure, then pulled back, out of his grasp, took a deep, shuddery breath, and wiped angrily at her eyes. "I hate crying," she remarked in a barely audible voice, more to herself, it seemed, than to him.
Just as she started to turn away again, back toward the table this time, Draco surprised himself once more, reaching out again, but not, this time, to grasp her shoulders. No, this time it was a far more intimate gesture; he gently grasped her chin, bringing her face around toward his again, meeting her eyes, which were wide and suddenly uncertain.
"It's not just the wand, is it?" he asked. "It's the whole thing- you're not over that night, period." And, unconsciously reenacting what he had done to Pansy in his delirium, he traced a finger over the cheekbone that had been so badly bruised that night, then ran his thumb lightly over her lips. There had been blood there that night- bright ruby blood, not muddy at all... and she was still an inferior being, and his duty was to his family and his family's sacred cause, and he had to keep reminding himself of that... but God, he wanted her. He could never love her- it was the worst sort of heresy to even allow that concept into his mind- but he could want her, he decided, could and did- oh, how he did. He wanted her right now on the table they'd both been sitting at, wanted to-
Enough already.
He dropped his hands.
But God, there was something about this girl- her prettiness that wasn't quite beauty, her vulnerability that she tried so hard to hide beneath that exterior of know-it-all bossiness, her innocence- a quality that shone through even when she was deliberately breaking the rules- sneaking about the school in an invisibility cloak, and Head Girl, no less- that just inspired lust in a man.
He frowned, remembering her disheveled state that night. Yes, there was something about this girl that inspired lust in a man, and Crabbe and Goyle were prone, after all, to acting on their basest animal instincts.
"Granger," he said suddenly, "tell me what really happened that night. Your clothes were ripped. Did they-?"
She took a step back, then turned away from him, wrapping her arms about herself- for warmth? For protection?
"I told you, no," she said in a flat voice.
Draco suddenly understood.
"But not for lack of trying... right?"
"Not for lack of trying," she echoed in a whisper, then turned back toward him just enough so that he could see her face in profile. "No, not for lack of trying," she said again in a stronger voice, "that's why I fought so hard. I told you I would rather have died, and I meant it. I thought, fine, if I fight back and they kill me for it, so be it; it's better than the alternative. I-" she trailed off for a moment, staring into space; then, just as he was about to move toward her again, she seemed to come back to herself and faced him fully once more. The expression in her eyes now was very close to panic. "I, um, I really do have to go," she said, the words tumbling over each other in her sudden haste. "I'm sorry." And she brushed past him and virtually bolted for the door.
Draco started to pursue her, then thought better of it. She really did seem overwrought- he should allow her to go in peace. "Granger," he called, instead, as she reached the door; she paused there, though she did not turn back toward him. He thought carefully about how to phrase his parting words.
"Be careful of Filch," he said at last. "You've a long walk back. It would be best... not to be seen."
She made no reply, just opened the door, slipped soundlessly though it, and was gone.
Draco hoped she had caught his meaning and would, even now, be concealing herself beneath the invisibility cloak. It wouldn't do to have her run into that bastard Filch... or anyone else, either, for that matter.
It was, of course, two particular someone elses that were occupying his thoughts at the moment.
They had tried to rape her.
He realized that both his fists and his jaw were clenched painfully tight.
They had tried to rape her. And she had made it clear that if they had succeeded, it would have been, for her, a fate worse than death. She had feared they would kill her for fighting, yet still she had fought back.
They had tried to rape her- and why, goddamn it, WHY- he lashed out suddenly, driving his fist into the end of the bookcase nearest him- did it even matter to him? Her welfare was supposed to matter to him about as much as that of someone else's house elf. So what if they had raped her? So what if they had destroyed her beautiful, fragile innocence? He wasn't supposed to care. What was more, he didn't want to care- he had not asked for this complication in his life. She was only a mudblood.
But, a corner of his mind whispered, she's your mudblood now.
Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.
All right, well maybe it wasn't so bad if he looked at it from that perspective; in terms of ownership. Loving an inferior creature was unacceptable, but one could own an inferior creature- take house elves, for example- and when one did, then it was natural to look out for one's property. So if he approached the issue like that- staked a claim to the mudblood, made her his next official conquest- then he could tell Crabbe and Goyle not to go near her again, and they would listen... they had bloody well better, if they knew what was good for them.
He gave a barely perceptible nod, having decided on a course of action, then returned to the table they had so briefly shared and began packing up his things- by hand, this time, as there was no longer anyone to show off for. There was little point in staying in the library now that she was gone; he could study in more comfort in his private Head Boy room.
He was on the verge of leaving when something caught his eye; a gleam of white on the floor, in the shadow of the table. Stooping, he retrieved a scroll of parchment and, unrolling it, was met by the sight of rows and rows of Hermione's neat writing, to the tune of three feet in all. A potions assignment due at the end of next week; she had apparently dropped it in her haste to pack her school bag.
He thrust it into his bag along with his own parchments and headed back to the dungeons. Draco needed no invisibility cloak to avoid detection by Filch; he was stealthy by nature.
00000
An hour later, he sat at his desk, writing. His penmanship was as neat as Granger's, though more masculine. He wrote left-handed; it had thrilled his father no end when it had first come to light that his only child was a southpaw; it was a trait highly prized among Slytherins, as the great Salazar himself had been left-handed.
Dear Granger, he wrote, a slight smirk playing about his lips, find enclosed with this note your potions assignment, which I discovered still in the library after you left. I took the liberty of reading through it and regret to inform you that you made a grievous error in the fourth paragraph down, when listing ingredients for your proposed potion. One of the ingredients you have listed is incorrect, and will alter the effect of the potion somewhat severely; instead of turning the subject blue, as intended, the potion will, as you have written it, turn the subject inside out, resulting in a rather unpleasant death. Try it out on Longbottom, if you don't believe me; that will be no great loss. Suffice it to say, Professor Snape will give no credit to this assignment as it is, and I can only imagine the intense pleasure it will give him to upbraid you in front of the entire class. I am not going to tell you which ingredient is wrong; I am most interested to see just how clever you really are, and to that end, will be watching Snape with great interest on Friday, to see whether he accepts your work, which will of course mean that you have rectified the mistake on your own, or rejects it. DM
He sat for a moment deep in thought, then added, as a postscript, If you make a habit of studying in the library after hours, perhaps we could do so together a few evenings a week; I think that we could be beneficial to one another as we prepare for our upcoming N.E.W.T. exams. Clearly you could use a bit of tutelage in Advanced Potions, and I admit that I am not equally strong in all subjects either; I would like to take advantage of your expertise in Arithmancy and Ancient Runes. Think it over, and let me know.
This done, he rolled Hermione's assignment and his letter into a single tube of parchment, tied it off with a green satin ribbon, and with a lazy flick of his left hand, caused the latch on his Eagle Owl's cage to lift and the cage door to fly open. The handsome animal came immediately to its master, alighting on the desk in front of Draco and presenting a leg to accept the message it was to deliver.
"Take this up to Granger, the Head Girl," he instructed, "and do not nip her, do you understand me? You may be delivering correspondence to her somewhat frequently for a while, and you are never to nip her, Jupiter. You will recognize her for a mudblood... but she's a cut above the rest. Is that clear?"
The stately owl inclined its head for an instant in a gesture of acquiescence, and Draco stood, walked over to his room's single leaded glass window, and threw it open, relishing the cool air of the early spring night as his owl swooped past him and vanished, flying almost straight up, toward the top of the castle. Draco was immensely privileged to have both a window and an owl in his room; windows were hard to come by in the dungeons, and only the Head Boy and Girl were allowed to keep owls in their rooms rather than the owlry, as only the Head Boy and Girl had private rooms in which to keep them.
He paced the room until Jupiter returned, then cursed a blue streak at the fact that he bore no reply. Not even a quick note of thanks to him for saving her ass in potions, and certainly not any indication of whether she would take him up on his suggestion of studying together.
The damned mudblood was playing hard-to-get.
At length, he flopped down in his armchair, ran both hands through his silvery hair, closed his eyes, and, settling back deeper into the dark green plushness of the chair, finally allowed a tiny smirk to settle on his lips.
The damn mudblood was playing hard-to-get. Well, so be it. It would only make the conquest sweeter in the end, for in the end he would get what he wanted. Draco Malfoy always got what he wanted. Well, except for Weasley's head on a silver platter and Potter's on a gold one, but... he was still working on that. Perhaps he could even put that particular dream on the back burner for a while, so as to devote more energy to this one. It would be worth it in the end.
He wanted her- that was all, just wanted her- so badly.
Victory would be so sweet.