Author's Notes: I know I am extremely late with this chapter but I have to say thank you to everyone who reviewed and are sticking with this one. It's been a real roller coaster ride, and the ride's still going. But I've found that I can seek refuge in writing and that's what I am doing right now. :) Another reason for this tardiness is that I have re-written this chapter literally four times. The name of this chapter is: "Chapter 10 new new new one" in my file. I literally dumped about thirty or forty pages of work while writing and yet re-writing this piece. Yes, I am a perfectionist freak . . .
By the way, thanks everyone, the people who e-mailed me and for all of the encouragement in the reviews. I know it seems that I am putting it lightly but I'm not. Just to let you all know, your concern really meant (and still does) a lot to me.
The Passion of Hate and Love
Chapter 10: Divided Attractions; the Triangle of Paths
Written by Callisto Callispi
The headmaster took a good swig of some butterbeer and looked over the letter once more. A message from Lucius Malfoy, no matter how ridiculously proposed, was not to be ignored. It read:
Dear Headmaster Albus Dumbledore,
We at the Department of Non-Magic People Security deem it absolutely necessary to dismiss the students of non-magical parentage currently studying at the Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry. As you also may have heard, the rumors of the revival of the Dark Lord, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, is not to be contained any longer, but dealt with as soon as possible. For these reasons and for their safety as well, we insist that those students of non-magical parentage be removed from the premises no later than January 21. Our representative, Mister Lucius Malfoy shall grant an audience for open negotiations during the seventh of December at the school. Please prepare for the meeting and the dismissal of the students.
Yours Truly,
Aldrich Finkle, head of the Department of Non-Magic People Security
Dumbledore sighed. The letter arrived mid-November, just days after Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy had gotten into another one of their quarrels and blown up a portion of the Gryffindor sections of the stadium.
Despite the fact that yes, rumors of the Dark Lord grew increasingly disturbing, Dumbledore also suspected that Lucius did not appreciate his only son getting into so much trouble for "breaking a few measly rules," as he nastily put, and encouraged the support of banning muggle-born children from the school. And Lucius knew full well that two muggle-borns were the Head Boy and Girl of the school; Gregory Hawking and Hermione Granger.
Dumbledore sighed once more. The days were getting numbered when the muggle-born children would be safe. Dumbledore knew that Voldemort would rise once more. And worse, the department knew that he had knowledge of Voldemort's rise. Though he hated admitting it, Dumbledore felt that the muggle-borns would be safer in their own homes rather than at Hogwarts where rumors of an "inside source" here was plotting against them for some sort of power, and Albus had an inkling of what they were after.
The headmaster held a firm promise that there would never be a repeat of the Chamber of Secrets. He and his staff personally saw that the Chambers were closed after Harry Potter had faced and triumphed over Voldemort. But then again Salazar was never straight out with his plans. He was always the devious one who would always have something hidden for future reference, something always out of sight so no one could find it until it was too late. Any nook and cranny could lead to it and unfortunately, Dumbledore nor his staff found any such leading nooks. But Albus knew it was there — whatever it was, whether the nook led to an item or even a new corridor — waiting for good or evil to open it and spill out its magical secrets that mortals hadn't set eyes on since the ancient times.
Unfortunately, the staff weren't the only people who sought after that mysterious power. It seemed that Voldemort also wanted it for himself, perhaps to completely rejuvenate his former form which his power had been the strongest. And Dumbledore knew fully well how a Voldemort in his mid-thirties could operate. Tom Riddle always had potential, admittedly greater than what Dumbledore himself knew of.
For the third time, the headmaster sighed wearily, taking the last drink of his butterbeer. He had neglected to write back. He scorned their demands for sending the muggle-borns home early, refusing to singling out a certain minority -- there was too much of that in the world nowadays. No, he wouldn't close just a part of the school. If he had to rid of someone or some group, the whole school went with them. This was the doctrine he had followed by all of his life and wasn't about to bend backward to gain the favor of Lucius Malfoy.
Settled on this decision, Dumbledore decided he would loiter no longer and tomorrow, he would pen back his response. With that, he exited his office and headed towards his own room.
Draco stumbled into his dormitory bathroom, grabbing a bottle of tonic and a box of cotton balls. As soon as he faced the bathroom mirror, Draco tore away the makeshift bandage that Hermione had wrapped around him. Dipping the cotton ball into the tonic, he placed it upon the fleshy part of his wound. He flinched, feeling as if he had placed liquid fire upon himself, but Draco could see results almost immediately as the large wound began to slowly close up.
He retrieved some fresh bandages from his room and then wrapped it loosely around his wound, disposing of the mud-crusted ones. However, just when he was about to tie it in the back, Draco noticed something peculiar on his shoulder blade. He squinted and craned his neck to see what it was. With a gasp, he realized that it was the faint outline of his mark.
"Oh no," Draco gasped, trying to get a better view of the bolding, black outlines of the mark. "But they said it wouldn't show!"
Lucky that Granger didn't see it.
Wearily, Draco placed the tonic into the medicine cabinet along with the cotton balls then made his way into the shower, trying to shake off the nagging little thought of just having Madame Pomfrey take care of this massive wound. Instead he quelled the temptation and washed away crusting blood framing his muscles.
Ten minutes later, he made his way into his room, put on a crisp night shirt, then went to bed. Draco closed his eyes with a look of utter serenity clouding his expression. But inside, he could feel the gears turning inside of his busy mind.He would have to write to his father about the issue of this mark, no matter how much he despised communicating with him. But if the headmaster caught him with the mark on his back, it was more than enough to send him to Azkaban for ten years.
Draco opened his eyes with a frustrated sigh. What a night. He still couldn't believe anything. And despite the issue with his mark, the absurdly insignificant bit of news regarding the Founding Four haunted his mind. Salazar Slytherin and Rowena Ravenclaw were lovers! Draco shuddered. To think that the two members of the Founding Four shared a bed.
To him, it sounded almost heretical. It was like first finding out what your mother and father did to conceive a child. It was stamped onto every student's mind that the Founding Four's legacy was the stuff made of almost childish legends. The Founding Four were considered as icons and to each other, brothers and sisters. Before this, it never occurred to Draco that the founder of his House was indeed but a man and a man obligated to have his own desires.
Draco let out a great sigh and opened his eyes. He sat up and stared out his window towards the Forbidden Forest, wondering how such a creature existed and how she could have the fortune to know Salazar . . . really know the man.
Salazar Slytherin had been found dead by a student. He had been slashed by what seemed like the blade of a sword. What historians assumed was that Salazar took a mistress whom he had loved beyond life and one of his other jealous lovers killed him. Draco thought it was all whimsical, romantic fancy. In his mind, Salazar was like his father: incapable of love and totally frigid towards anything not in his favor.
Even now, Draco knew that he resembled his father.
He sighed and laid back down, wondering if he would ever be able to fall asleep any time soon. After five minutes, Draco knew that the answer was a definite no. Frustrated, Draco got up, put on a white shirt and some comfortable dress pants, threw his Slytherin cloak over his shoulders then ventured out, his mind protesting rather fervently, but his legs taking their own path. Perhaps a nice walk would calm his nerves. Besides, no one would be out -- it was about three in the morning and even Peeves had to have his rest.
He walked quietly out of the dungeons to no where in particular. He silently thought of what the black-robed men had told him when receiving his mark. He would bet his life that they had told him and his father that the mark would definitely not show. But why was it darkening now of all times!
"Damn it," he muttered.
"Malfoy?" he heard someone hiss behind him.
Draco whipped around, scanning the darkness for any unwelcome visitors. Then, to his complete surprise, Hermione Granger stepped out of the shadows, her arms clutched tightly at her sides.
"What are you doing here?" he snarled angrily partly due to the fact that she had surprised him. He hated surprises. But as his eyes grazed over her pale, pale features, the scowl on his lips softened.
He took a step closer to her, and when she didn't back away, he reached out hesitantly, and his fingers grazed her cheek. Her skin was icy cold.
"You're pale," he said simply, finding nothing else he could say.
"Quite inquisitive of you." Then, as if suddenly aware of the closed distance between the two of them, she took two quick steps behind her. "What are you doing here?"
Draco stared around the large hall he was in and then realized that he had stumbled into the hospital wing. He then focused back on Hermione, seeing that his robe hung over on one bare arm. Draco stared at her shivering form, pitying the sight of her. All she had one was a night-shirt of the Chudley Canons and a pair of gray, loose-fitting cotton pants, and she seemed dreadfully cold in just that.
"I couldn't sleep," he answered. "You?"
For a moment, even in the frail light of the moon, Draco could have sworn that he could see a weak blush forming around her cheeks.
"Well, I—I had actually been wondering if you had really chosen to follow my advice and come to get Madame Pomfrey's help."
"Concerned? Over me? How sweet," he sneered.
She glared at him in exasperation. "I don't even know why I concern myself over your sake so much. After all, you're nothing but a slithering little snake. Just like that nasty crest on your robes."
"What news. Really, Granger, I could never have thought you felt that way."
"And you know what? I hope you don't get well and all. In fact, I wish that I haven't covered up that wound so you would shrivel up like a raisin."
Draco raised an eyebrow. "Do I hear a note of malignity? From the head girl? Well, I shouldn't be surprised that you wish for my death. After all, many do."
Hermione blinked then looked away, possibly in shame. "Death? I don't wish you to die, Malfoy. It was just a joke."
"Not what I said."
An awkward silence followed. He ginned flippantly, though he felt just the opposite that his expression suggested.
"You don't mean that." When she saw his smirk grow, she scoffed and replied, "Malfoy, you aren't going to die soon anyway. Death is too good for you."
"I'm too good for death, you mean," he said slyly.
"And I also hope that you fall on your face so your nose will be broken and wretched. Perhaps that will tone down that gigantic ego of yours."
Draco chuckled.
"I'm being quite serious, Malfoy."
"Granger, Granger, Granger," he said, walking a smooth circle around Hermione. "Don't you know that is my only weapon against you? My only dagger hidden within my deep, dark cloak? And you ask me to blunt my edge?"
Hermione rolled her eyes and placed a hand on his robe sleeve to stop him in his tracks. She stared directly into the stormy gray eyes of her foe and said in an incredibly presumptuous tone, "Your arrogance is your weapon against me?"
"Not just that. I am my own weapon. My demeanor, my charm—"
"What charm?"
"—And my dashing looks," said he, pulling away from her with an enigmatic smile. "Don't I intrigue you, just a bit?"
"You must think me as one of your mindless admirers," she remarked. "I do not fall for your so-called charms as easily as the others do."
He neglected to respond, finding himself so lost in his own thoughts. Draco felt something stirring in his stomach, and before he had a chance to get properly horrified at his sudden reaction regarding this late-night meeting (tryst! his mind screamed), he found that he thought her quite attractive, standing here so defiantly in front of him in the middle of the night. He saw that her body was cold, and the thought that he would be the one to warm her seemed awfully tempting. He saw her look back at him boldly, triumphantly, with that bright burning flame in her dark eyes teasing and taunting him. She thought that she had bested him, and it amused him so that he wanted to laugh and pat her cheek.
Then, something clicked in his mind, and Draco turned away, almost in shame of what he had just seen in her. Of course, it was a given that he would never ever find her, a muggle-born in Gryffindor, attractive, and she would never find him attractive either. It was against his morals. Their morals. Closing his eyes, he assured to himself that this moment of enlightenment regarding her . . . image . . . was nothing but an instance of sudden lust. A lust driven by his thoughts of self-pity and self-righteousness that clouded his mind.
He opened his eyes and sighed, breathing out the nonsensical fantasies of the Gryffindor Head Girl from himself. Yes, these fancies were the result of the traumatic events of this night. That little instance scared him for a moment there.
"You must think of me as one of your mindless admirers . . ." her voice echoed hauntingly in his mind.
He could not help but recollect the faces of the beautiful women he had seen emerge from his father's chambers when his mother was away somewhere else in Europe. He remembered the pink flushes on their beautiful, sweat-moistened faces. He remembered how their elegant hands so greedily clutched those few, glittering galleons as they smiled courteously at him before making their way out. Was he so like his father? Draco shuddered. Never.
"Naive," he muttered, staring at her.
He saw her tilt her head in question.
Draco smirked wryly. He ran a hand through his damp hair. "Don't worry about any sort of advances physically or mentally. Rest assured, it will never happen. I repeat: never." He saw relief, no matter how subtle, relax her features. And that, be it Hermione Granger or not, took a minor toll on his masculine pride.
You think you are better than me, little Miss Perfect? Draco's mind taunted as he moved toward her.
"Rest assured that I will never corner you in a hallway. I would never touch you anywhere inappropriate." His fingers grazed the side of her neck where the two faint puncture marks made by the Red Widow were. Leaning in slightly to face her, he whispered, "I would always refrain myself from taking advantage of you."
"Get away, Malfoy," Hermione said in reply, shoving him away from her by the shoulders. "This is serious. Don't joke about these things, especially here."
He laughed slightly, feeling Hermione's death glare on his face. "If you're worried about . . . what happened tonight, when you woke up, trust me, I was attempting nothing but to carry you back to the castle."
Her eyes flared, almost like a warning beacon. "Don't fool with me," her gaze told him.
"I promise," he said in a joking way with his hand over his heart, "that I will never attempt such a thing."
Hermione smiled in wry amusement. "Fine, I'll humor you in this little banter of yours. You made a promise, and you are bound to keep that promise on the threat that . . ." Hermione spotted a glinting silver ring on his ring finger " . . . On the threat that you giving me that ring."
He looked down at his hand. "This?" He stared at the crest. It was his family's crest. If he lost this, his father would probably slaughter him three times over. "We have a wager."
Suddenly, he felt a burning twinge on his shoulder blade, and it wasn't his wound. Automatically, his hand shot up towards the mark.
"Malfoy, are you all right?" said Hermione, surprised. "It's that shoulder wound, isn't it? I knew that it was serious. You must get some help."
Draco snorted, clenching his teeth and letting his hand fall to his sides. He didn't even let out a whimper during his branding and he would not have this girl sympathize over a temporary sting every now and then, even if she referred to a different wound.
"I don't need anyone's help, thank you. I'm perfectly fine. Perhaps it is you that needs the help."
"Why are you so nasty?"
Draco's eyes narrowed. "Did I ask for you concern? It's really none of your business. You really are the one to see the nurse. A blood transplant will do you good—"
"Don't mind me," she replied tartly, brushing away his anxiety. "I'm healthy. But how is that shoulder? How did you get it to stop bleeding?"
Draco smirked smugly. "I'll have to admit this since you'd probably find out sooner or later. As soon as I came back in, I snuck into Madame Pomfrey's medicine cabinet . . ."
Hermione widened her eyes. "You stole it from her? You stole medicine from Madame Pomfrey? That has got to be a first—"
"So what? She was going to use it on me anyway."
Hermione looked down at the ground, chewing on her bottom lip thoughtfully. "Oh yes, I nearly forgot, here." She handed him his cloak and hesitantly, Draco took it from her. He saw that it was washed and dried, and he wondered if she had done it just for him. The thought comforted him in some way even if that process could have been easily performed with a slight flick of a wand.
"Look," she started once again, fiddling with the orange cotton of the Chudley Cannons shirt. "Malfoy, you know that I want to know what happened this night."
Draco frowned.
"But I won't ask you. Not right now. I know that it's probably going to be this long story, and it'd probably be better being told when we're not standing outside of the hospital wing in the middle of the night. But I do want some sort of an answer, and you and I both know that I deserve an answer."
Draco neglected to respond.
"All right, Malfoy?"
"Look," Draco said, rubbing his eyes wearily. "Let's talk about this tomorrow. I'm quite tired."
Hermione stayed silent for a few seconds, staring at Draco with an expression of mixed anger and fatigue, then sighed. "All right. Fine, we'll do it your way. Tomorrow, then. I'm going to bed. Oh, one more thing . . ."
Draco raised both of his eyebrows in question. Hermione fidgeted with her nails before speaking. "You said that you snuck into the hospital wing, right?"
"Yes, so what?"
"Did—did you see Harry?" Her voice seemed squeezed, as if she knew she had asked a question that shouldn't be asked. And Draco felt the same way as her.
"Potter?" he spat with narrowed eyes. "Well, I must say that I did glimpse his hideous face a few times, but I didn't hex him if that's what you're afraid of." He said this in a scathing tone, almost as if he resented the fact that Harry Potter was favored over him in her eyes.
"Malfoy," she said gently. "I know that you wouldn't have done anything to harm Harry while he's in the hospital bed. Grant me some credit, I do know you, seeing as how we've hated each other for six years."
"Then why'd you ask?" he demanded feverishly.
"I was just curious over Harry's health."
"Do you always concern yourself over anothers sake?" Draco asked cynically.
Hermione smiled slightly. "Not always . . ."
From the background, the soft, deep chimes of a grandfather clock struck four times.
"I should be going to sleep . . ." She paused, staring at him curiously. "You should too. Good night, then." She turned around and walked to the Gryffindor dormitories.
"Wait, Granger. Are you sure you're all right?"
Hermione turned around and flipped her hand towards him in an exasperated manner. "Of course I am. Just a bit tired is all."
Draco nodded but nevertheless trailed her to her dorm due to . . . Actually, he never uncovered a certain reason why he had trailed after her that night. Of course it wasn't because he really cared for her. That was preposterous, since he was in Slytherin and she in Gryffindor. He could excuse his earlier momentary lust, but really caring for the girl? No, that would require a good explanation, and Draco hated the thought that he was getting soft when matters concerned his little—the little Gryffindor.
Draco fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillows. But the fact that he had become unreasonably jealous when she expressed her concern over Potter did seriously disturb him, for there was truly nothing that he and Potter had to compete over—except quidditch. Particularly the attention of a Gryffindor female.
But now, as Draco found himself wandering around in his own oblivious slumber, nothing concerned him, not even the fact that the mark on his back was getting darker and darker by the second.
Ron breathed in the chilly air, enjoying the view of the falling snowflakes.
"First snow of the year," he said to Hermione who was probably still half-asleep next to him. "It came late. First sign of snow on the first of December. Wonder why Jack Frost didn't pay us a visit earlier, eh, Hermione?" He waited for an answer, a response of any kind, but none came. "Hermione? Hello? Anyone home up there?"
Her eyes half-closed she murmured something so incoherent that Ron wondered if she were drugged.
"Hermione?" he said, putting his hands on her shoulders and shaking her rigid form gently. "Are you all right?"
In an instant, her eyes shot open. "Ron, don't do that. I have this splitting headache . . ."
"Well you seem like you do. You look like a fright!"
"Thanks, Ron," Hermione answered sarcastically.
"Maybe you should go to the nurse."
"And miss my classes? Especially this one? You should know me better than that, Ron," Hermione scolded lightly. "Besides, Professor Sprout told us to collect some of those winter greens. Did you get any?"
Ron stared around themselves, staring at the pines in disgust. "Yes, I did, no thanks to you. We should have gone over to the clearing like the others. Winter greens don't grow around trees, you know."
"Oh, stop complaining, Ron. Think of this as returning about a few dozen favors. Remember when I helped you with that transfiguration exam? And the Wizard Law course. Oh, and don't forget—"
"I know, I know," said Ron, holding his hands up in defeat. "You don't have to remind me."
Hermione nodded in a satisfied way and plucked a winter green from Ron's hands. Brining it up to her nose, she took a slight whiff of it, recoiled, then handed it back to her counterpart. "At least it'll remain fresh for a week or two. It'll be more effective in that new antidote we're making. Now all we have to collect are the pink moss, the swamp weeds, and the—"
"Have I told you how glad I am to have you as a partner?" asked Ron with a laugh.
"Hm, yes, well I'm sure you and Harry would have gone for the shriveled old winter greens in the clearing instead of going for that extra mile."
"You know us too well."
"How is Harry? I didn't get a chance to visit him yesterday or today. I think I might give him the homework assignment we got in Charms. I'm sure he won't want to miss out on that."
"Hermione, Harry told me to tell you to stop giving him so many assignments. He says he has already been excused from the work if he didn't get it so you're sort of taking away his free ticket. And he's doing good, much better than yesterday, I'll tell you."
Hermione glowered for a few seconds. "How will you ever learn anything if you don't do the work?"
Ron winked. "Having you as a study buddy. Cramming in information before the tests also got me out rather nicely."
Together, they walked towards Professor Sprout and gave her the winter greens. From there, she squashed it into a vial marked "Granger and Weasley". From there, the class headed back to the Herbology glass house and started mixing the ingredients for the antidote together.
"By the way," said Ron. "I heard that Zabini was let out."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. It seems the chap's still a bit wobbly from the poison but is well enough to have double potions with us tomorrow. And I think he's in your Arithmancy class?"
Hermione stared at the sickeningly purple brew, nodding slightly. "Yes, I have that class next hour."
Blaise's face came alive in the reflection of the potion. Hermione sort of felt sorry for him. To her, he seemed like an almost decent person -- and polite, for a Slytherin. But Draco . . . he told her that Blaise was a death eater. She shook her head slightly to rid herself of the thought. She did not want to think of any Slytherins today, especially not Draco. She almost thought that the meeting in front of the hospital wing was still a strange dream.
Next to her, Ron's elbow jabbed her arm, splattering some of the antidote on her robe sleeve.
"Sorry Hermione!" he said, wiping it off with his hand.
"Oh, it's all right, Ron," she said, a bit embarrassed by his concern. Nevertheless, he managed to get all of it off.
He let out a heavy sigh then turning to her, he touched her on the shoulder. "Look, Hermione, about the Yule Ball . . ."
"What about it?"
Ron looked away for a few seconds, his cheeks turning red. "Look, er, remember at my house, when Mum said that you should go with me and I said no . . ."
Hermione tilted her head, trying to control the blood rushing to her cheeks. "Yes?"
"Well, I just wanted to say . . . Er . . ."
"Yes Ron, I accept your apology."
His eyebrows shot up, his face turning even redder. "Hermione . . . that's not . . . I mean, an apology?"
Uncomfortable under Ron's pleading, intense gaze, Hermione moved away, gathering some grounded ferns onto a piece of paper. "You know, you said something like, 'What? With her?' when your mum suggested that we go . . . together. It's all right, don't worry about it."
"But Hermione . . . that's not what I was going to . . . You know, I do apologize. I—I do apologize. Yes, that's—that's what I wanted to say."
Hermione looked away, not wanted to see the expression on Ron's face.
"Look, Neville and Dean are calling me over . . . I think they need my help . . ." Ron laughed dryly. "Ironic, isn't it, Head Girl? They ask for me and not you . . . I'll be right back."
Hermione watched Ron go with a crestfallen heart. He did not return to her. As she collected her books at the end of class, she walked quickly out of the room and headed straight for her Arithmancy class without a look backwards. She did not want to speak with Ron . . . she did not want to speak with anyone.
She padded silently down the silent, empty halls. This was a favorite passage of hers when heading to Arithmancy. People seldom used it since it was the long way around the school, but Hermione had plenty of time.
She sighed. Why had she just done that? She wasn't stupid -- it was as clear as day that Ron was trying to ask her to be her partner for the Yule Ball . . . and she really liked Ron. Actually, she loved the red-haired prat but, she didn't love him in that certain way.
Hermione moaned. She was so angry at herself, so angry that she was stupid enough to turn him down so coldly. She could have just said, "No, I'm sorry, Ron" or even "Please, let's stay as friends" should he have wanted them to take a step further by being a couple. Hermione had to admit, however, that she did not want to hear his voice asking her to the Yule Ball even if she was brave enough to tell him no. She feared it would jeopardize the precious relationship that they had.
With a mild shock, Hermione then realized that he looked at her as a woman now, a member of the opposite sex.
"I'm such a fool!" she muttered to herself. "He grew up, Hermione. He looks at you now."
The realization shocked her and embarrassed her. Perhaps it was too much to hope that nothing would change between them.
She approached a darkened corridor branching out from the large, main hall. On the wall hung a still painting of two large dragons. It was the painting she had often gazed at, entranced by the vivid hues of red and gold, and the soft tones of earthy brown and melancholy blue. She smiled slightly, her fingertips grazing the surface. This never ceased to comfort her. This painting never ceased to draw her in. Hermione wondered who painted it. The two dragons were portrayed as grand, majestic creatures, almost bound together spiritually, breathing their fearsome flames at the clouds.
"If only some things would never change," she whispered, ashamed at the way she reacted towards Ron.
"Some things never do."
Her heart nearly jolted out of her chest at the sudden ring of that voice. She whipped around, dropping about two books in the process. "Blaise!" she breathed.
"Settle down. Are you all right?" he asked with mirth twinkling in his eyes. He bent down and collected her books and papers. He handed them over to her.
"Don't you ever do that again! You scared me half to death!" she said in a shrill whisper, collecting her materials from him.
Blaise waited for her to regain her composure patiently with slight amusement.
"What are you doing here spying on me?" she demanded.
"Oh please, Hermione, you don't own this hallway, much less this corridor."
He strolled over to the painting and gazed at it. He then turned around with an almost sheepish expression on his tanned face and shrugged helplessly. "I was on my way to Arithmancy, and I saw you here. I decided to say my salutations until you uttered that question. Being a gentleman, I believe I'm rather obligated to answer, it being the polite thing to do."
Hermione felt her almost-angry shock slipping away with one glance at his disarming smile. "Don't give me that, you just wanted to find an excuse to frighten me."
"Yes, you've figured me out so well." He then turned towards the painting and Hermione sidled up next to him. They stared at it together in a strangely comfortable silence.
"Extraordinary," said Blaise casually, tracing the contours gently with his hand. "It's surprising that a muggle could display such skill. It's an incredible piece of work with so much expression in such majestic allegory."
"An allegory?"
Blaise pointed at the two dragons, entwined at the tail in an intimate manner. "Look here. They are soul mates, as you can see here. Look below them at the blackened masses. Those are the humans that wish to eradicate the two from the world. Or in a more symbolic sense, try to separate two lovers. Like . . . Romeo and Juliet, I suppose, or any other star-crossed lovers."
Hermione's brows gathered.
"But see how these two rose above the strife and they breathe fire at the heavens, challenging the stars to deny them their love."
Impressed at Blaise's knowledge of such things, Hermione peered closer at the painting and then at him.
"Of course, I could be wrong and the artist painted all that for the hell of it," he said quickly, clearing his throat.
Gazing up at his face in an almost admiring manner, Hermione shook her head. "No, you're right, Blaise, the first time. How—how did you gather all of that in such a short amount of time?"
He shrugged. "I took a humanities class during the summer in Geneva near the Rath Museum. A muggle course which my father required for me to take. After all, I'm planning on going to Florence when I graduate to live with my aunt and uncle for a few years. And you know Florence -- all of that Renaissance, humanism, artsy bustle. "
With a sly smile, Hermione turned around and started to walk slowly in the direction of her Arithmancy class. Blaise followed her with a bewildered yet curious smile.
"You were never so artistic," teased Hermione.
"We've never had a chance to speak," said Blaise with a grin.
Hermione neglected to answer and turned around, trying to hide a smile. This Blaise Zabini . . . she never knew he was so kind! Hermione also had to admit with a slight blush that he was also quite attractive, now that he had proven his whimsical intelligence to her, with his dark wavy hair cropped in a manner that framed his angular features so beautifully.
"So how goes detention with my sour class mate?" he asked.
Hermione's smile slipped, and Blaise noticed. "You know, Malfoy is Malfoy. It's fine, I suppose."
Blaise chuckled. "My bitter counterpart. He's quite arrogant, but you can't very well help it if you were him. His father, I've heard, is quite the cold and distant man, yet Draco's had everything handed to him ever since he was an infant. Besides, he's a shrewd bastard. He always gets his way somehow."
"You sound angry," Hermione commented.
Blaise shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets. "But he's a companion, you see? Or as close as one can be companions with Draco Malfoy. But I'm not angry, just a bit frustrated at his lack of—"
"Compassion? Respect? His lack of humility?"
"You know him well."
"I know his type well."
They walked for a few moments more in silence. Hermione was starting to like this tall, handsome, young man's company. He was so different, even from Harry and Ron. For a Slytherin, he wasn't half-bad at all.
"How are you feeling?" she asked. "I mean, I suppose you were just released from the infirmary after . . . you know."
"A bit dizzy and fatigued, actually. But I don't care. Anything to get out of that hospital bed. I'm flattered. You are the first one to inquire me about my health."
"Well I admit I had been a bit worried over both you and Harry. After all, that poison seemed to be extraordinarily powerful . . ."
"It seems like your insides are being shredded to pieces," Blaise said with a grimace. "It's not fun at all."
"I can only imagine," Hermione said softly, wondering how Harry fared through this terrible predicament.
The two were able to make class a few seconds before being officially tardy. Class was especially boring this day as the professor the introduced the lesson on metaphysics before Kant and its relationship (or non-relationship) with magic. The professor then began to scribbled out numerical equations with a variety of signs—which Hermione thought rather irrelevant to this branch of philosophy—on the board and instructed the class to copy some of the formulas down.
Hermione, though she was ashamed to admit this, found herself consulting Blaise Zabini on such matters regarding their previous lesson whenever the teacher turned her back. Some other girls from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw raised their eyebrows at this verbal exchange and whispered fervently about this amongst themselves during the class.
The young men stared at Blaise in awe for either one of two reasons. First of all, he was of Slytherin and she of Gryffindor; secondly, Blaise was the first male in the whole class brave enough to pick at an attempt at a conversation with the legendary, perfect-score, pretty Head Girl who was the good friend of the equally legendary Harry Potter.
Yet, regardless of the curious stares and the snips of gossip she heard, Hermione resumed her conversation as if nothing was happening. After all, she didn't care what the Ravenclaws and the Hufflepuffs thought of her. Anyway, she was the only Gryffindor in the Arithmancy class and Blaise was the only Slytherin so though it did not make perfect sense that these two loners would get along, the situation was understandable.
All in all, this was not a productive class, and Hermione virtually understood none of the homework she received. Checking her schedule to find an open for an hour and a half, Hermione headed down to the library with her books, bidding Blaise good-bye, though she knew she would miss his company.
The numbers and the signs stared up at her menacingly, and even Hermione could not begin to explain how this strange equation-like problem related to magic in any way. After a few struggling minutes of searching through the text book and ending up empty, Hermione let out a frustrated groan and snapped the book shut so angrily that the librarian and a few other library-users stopped what they were doing and looked up. Hermione dropped her head on top of the textbook cover and closed her eyes.
What was wrong with her these days? She relieved her red forehead and turned her head to face the bookshelf. What drove her to speak with Draco Malfoy like that last night? Who knew what that little snake was capable of. She remembered what he said to her, something that she had thought about all night.
"Don't I intrigue you, just a bit?" he had asked her with that infuriating smile of his.
And Hermione had been caught so completely off-guard with that question. She had to admit that Draco Malfoy, when she managed to scrape a bit deeper into the real Draco Malfoy, wasn't a terrible person. But Hermione would have rather starved to death than to admit to him that he did indeed intrigue her like no one else before, and she found herself envisioning his stormy, ever-cold eyes and his scathing yet strangely mystifying voice. But he was no angel; he was not a person she could trust. For god's sake, he probably slept with a good portion of all seventh year girls -- of course, many of them quite beautiful or well-bred or both -- just for sake of doing it and proving himself as virile as any of the hormone-crazed young men in the school. Hermione was disgusted with herself for even day-dreaming about that wanton Slytherin and made a silent pact with herself that she would never do it again.
But last night . . . Did she act foolishly in front of him? Because the last thing that she wanted to appear in his eyes was a dreamy young girl who knew naught what she preached about --
"No! Why do I care?" Hermione whispered to herself, angry at breaking her own pact of not thinking about him so quickly.
And added to the confusion was Ron, dear old Ron whom she so coldly turned down when he was about to ask her to be his partner. How could she? How could she!
As strange as it was, she found herself wanting someone to talk to, someone open to her concerns. She wanted someone who she could talk to, not about Ron, but just about frustrations and life in general.
The first name that slid into her mind was Blaise.
"Are you dead?" asked a cold voice with a swish of satin robes.
Hermione refused to shift from her position for him. She hated him. He confused her about everything -- made her so unsure of herself. She probably hated being clue less more than she hated Draco Malfoy.
"Go away," she said acidly, impulsively.
"Fine," came Draco's response.
Hermione sighed, knowing that with his pride he would really leave rather than face defeat. She looked up, finding Draco's body prepped for walking away with a scowl on his face.
"Malfoy, come back. I didn't mean it," she said wearily.
He turned his back on her but stopped. "You sounded as if you meant it, Granger."
"Well I didn't," she retorted, her temper starting to flare.
He looked back with a frigid expression, but after awhile, Draco returned and hesitantly took a seat across from Hermione.
"What are you so angry about today?" Hermione muttered, opening up her metaphysics textbook again, staring at the equations.
Draco neglected to answer that. "You said you wanted to ask me something about last night," he said instead but stared at her more angrily than he usually did.
"You know what I want to know, Malfoy, so why don't you spit it out instead of playing around?" she demanded. Hermione was not in a good mood today, especially around Draco.
He quirked an eyebrow. "Your weak blood pressure," he said in a tone so blunt that Hermione almost fell out of her chair.
"My—my weak blood pressure?"
"I suppose it was a bit more cold than I have imagined, Granger," said Draco. "You started shivering and became delirious, talking about moving trees? Then you collapsed on top of me, I fell down and cut my shoulder on a jutting tree branch, then you woke up."
Hermione laughed dryly. "Malfoy, I fell through thin ice in Sweden during the winter and didn't even get a fever, much less collapse. Stop lying to me, and tell me the truth."
"It is the truth."
"You're not a very good liar," she shot back.
Draco glared across the table. "You are the most rebellious wench that I've ever met!" he hissed.
Hermione jerked back as if she were slapped. "I'm not a servant to be ordered around, Malfoy. I won't bow down to you and obey your every whim! You spoiled boar, just because you're a Malfoy, you think that you own the world!" she said, her pitch rising steadily with ever word.
He called me a . . . wench . . .? she wondered, astounded.
She looked away, finding that her heart had begun to beat about as twice as fast than before. In one quick motion, Hermione grabbed her books and papers. Draco stood up.
"Where are you going?" he demanded.
"Away from you!" she said in quiet yet furious tone, getting up. Without waiting for his response, she started to run out of the library, hearing Draco's steps follow her. Just as she ran away from the Great Hall and into a corridor leading to the Gryffindor Head Girl's room, a strong hand from behind her grabbed her arm, pulling it back almost painfully, spilling her books onto the ground.
"Let me go!" she shrieked, whirling around to push him back with her free arm.
Draco stumbled only slightly, loosening his grip a bit, but Hermione found that she could not get away from him.
"Calm down, damn it!" said Draco, irked.
"Malfoy, let me go," said Hermione, pulling out her wand with her free hand from her robe pockets. When he refused, she pointed the tip to his throat. "For the last time, let me go."
Even underneath his angry glare, Hermione saw that Draco had enough amusement left in him to manage a thin smirk. "Do you really think your silly little charms could harm me? Don't forget, I have a few tricks up my sleeve," he said calmly, looking towards his own wand sticking out of his pockets. He released her arm.
Furious, she bent down to collect her books. He helped her with the first few, yet as she reached for the last book, he grabbed it for himself.
"Give me the book."
Draco shook his head and flipped through the pages. "You're studying Ancient Runes?" Getting no answer from Hermione, he closed the text and stared at her with a slight smile. "You know, you really must mind your manners. A little 'please' or 'thank you' would take you a long way."
"Give me the book."
"Only if you promise to not run away."
"You first lie to me then you call me a wench. Give me a reason why I shouldn't mangle your face with my fist, much less run away."
Draco smiled slyly and handed the book back to her. "You wouldn't be able to lay a finger on me."
She received the text but stayed where she was. "Do you want to wager on that?" she asked, closing her hand in a fist and cocking it back slightly. The twins had taught her a few of their maneuvers during the summer when Fred and George weren't too busy working.
"Granger, I don't fight with girls . . . and you. Now stop being childish and listen."
Hermione whipped around and started walking away. "Now I'm childish, and I'm not qualified enough to be a girl?"
"You're acting childish, for one," he replied, coming up swiftly behind her and grabbing her arms gently with both his hands. "Don't fret, Granger, I noticed your femininity. You know, it's quite amusing to see someone usually so composed act this way."
She jerked away. "Perhaps you haven't noticed, Malfoy, but you just grind my nerves until there's nothing left in the end but this horrible rage. So just leave me alone before I do something I would regret later . . ."
"Like when you blew up the Gryffindor quidditch section?" he mused. "I suppose that is something that you do regret now, isn't it?"
"Excuse me?" Hermione said as she turned around to face him with an outraged expression. "Draco Malfoy, you know very well that I did not blow up that place . . . well, not by myself. Besides, it was all your fault to begin with! If you hadn't picked on Ginny and called me a—"
Draco placed a finger on her lips, shushing her before she could say anything else. Hermione did get the point and stayed quiet, though she frowned, as if she were confused over his action.
Draco backed away slowly, letting his hand fall to his sides. He couldn't bear to hear her say "mudblood" any more. He couldn't bear to even hear the word from someone else, and to his surprise, he couldn't say it himself without cringing just a little.
"Malfoy . . ."
"Look, Granger," he said, brushing away his earlier moment of emotion. With little effort, he managed to win back the snarl in his voice. His eyes were once again hard and cold, and his lips were curled in a mean little smirk. "Whether you believe me or not, what I say is true. Well, partially true."
"Why are you lying to me? What happened last night that you don't want to tell me? Malfoy, you can trust me to keep a secret, if necessary. I don't really have anyone to whom I can tell anything right now."
"Oh?" Draco asked with a raised eyebrow, his voice growing hostile as he remembered her late night inquiry about Harry. "What about Scarhead and the Weasel?"
Her eyes grew weary. "Never mind about them."
However, Draco did not stop, feeling something like re-newed envy coursing through his veins.
"Why should I take the word of a Gryffindor like you?" he demanded. "Why should I even be revealing anything to you?"
It's not as if you care for anyone but your precious celebrity and that second-rate excuse of a wizard. And Zabini. The latter thought made him even angrier.
"Fine!" Hermione exclaimed. "Don't tell me! Don't tell me anything, then, if you are going to be such an beast about it! This is why I cannot stand you, Malfoy. You always turn on me, even when I attempt to make peace. Forget what I said, then. Forget we ever spoke today. Just leave me alone!"
"Don't walk away from me, Granger!" Draco yelled.
In response, Hermione swung around and hurled a bottle of ink at his face. Fortunately for Draco, he ducked away just in time to dodge the blow and watched it shatter to the ground, leaving an ugly black stain on the red carpet. Without a word, Hermione resumed her walk, only in a quicker, more desperate pace.
"Are you running to Blaise Zabini, then?" he snarled from behind her. He smiled nastily as she stopped dead in her tracks. "That's right, Granger, run to that Slytherin churl."
"What?"
"You know fully well that he's a death eater. You know that I am right. Have you taken a good look at his forearm lately? The outline is faint but you'll see it, oh you will see it, Granger. The mark, my little Gryffindor," he said in a low voice, cutting in front of her and facing her with a cold stare. "One of Voldemort's lackeys. He's using you, Granger. Why else do you think a death eater would ever want to speak with you? Why would any male want to speak with you except to use you, like Potter and Weasley? When was the last time they bought you a gift of thanks for copying off of your papers?"
She looked up, obviously trying to conceal her shock and later, the hurt; she was not successful. Draco's cocky, nasty expression slid off of his lips and the corners of his eyes when he saw her wounded look, her dark eyes glittering like black opals. All of his anger evaporated and before he could repent for his spontaneous, envious words, she turned away and ran off.
"Nicely said, Draco," said a feminine voice from the end of the hall as soon as Hermione completely disappeared from sight.
He straightened as a scowl began to grow on his face.
Pansy sidled up next to him, stepping gingerly over the shattered ink bottle and traced a long, elegant finger from his shoulder blades down to his chest.
"How long have you been here?" Draco asked quietly.
"Long enough to admire those scathing words against that prissy bitch."
"The prissy bitch?" he asked, cocking a wry eyebrow at this reference. "Are you sure you aren't speaking of yourself?"
Pansy's eyes narrowed. "And pray tell, Draco, what else do you call someone who tells you to leave her alone so she could cuddle up with Blaise Zabini?"
"You've heard the rumors also?"
"I have. It seems that Blaise is becoming friendly with the Head Girl though I don't know why he chooses to bother with that so-called saint."
"Just because she's a virgin and you're not doesn't mean that she's a saint. Perhaps compared with you—"
"Why are you defending her, Draco?" Pansy asked with a pout. "You've changed, darling. It seems you're starting to grow tolerant of that mudblood's existence."
"I've always been tolerant."
"Only since about two weeks ago," Pansy drawled, stepping forward a bit towards where Hermione ran off, "when that detention began. I'd say you're getting along pretty nicely, even in the suffocating presence of that awful, frizzy-haired mudblood."
Draco turned away from Pansy, catching the wince before he could truly reveal his changing feelings. "Really, Pansy, you're mouth is filthy enough. Must you further dirty it?"
"What, by saying 'mudblood?' Don't be ridiculous, Draco! Are you ill? Don't tell me you are growing fond of her."
Pansy meant the last part as a cruel jest but Draco took it quite seriously. In an instant, he swirled around to face Pansy and grasped both of her shoulders tightly, almost to the extent where she began to whimper.
"What was that, Pansy?" he snarled, eyes growing colder by the second.
"Draco," she said, struggling in his iron grip. "Please, let me go. You're hurting me!"
He ignored her pleas and only gripped her tighter. "Are you trying to defile my family's name and tradition?"
Pansy shook her head fervently to spare herself of further pain, but in reality she thought, She has her hooks in you, Draco. Turn away before you grow feelings that you will later regret.
After a few moments, Draco did release Pansy slowly loosening his muscles as if he forced himself to. His eyes were dangerously wild and cold, like hurricane clouds. He knew that, for a moment, Pansy was frightened of his intense stare.
X
She glared back at him though her heart throbbed at the pace of a rabbit. She knew Draco Malfoy well, and over the years experienced his tempers more than once, whether they were directed to her or not. However, Pansy could not help but get angry at him for all that he put her through. Draco was so unpredictable, and that imposed quite a problem for her, a young girl who was devoutly in love with this wealthy, handsome Slytherin. This was the only reason that she allowed Draco to treat her like a menial and his personal scapegoat, for if she did otherwise, Pansy feared that Draco would throw her away like some used tissue. This prospect, the rejection of one whom she so loved, this was something that she could not even hope to be able to handle.
Keeping her thoughts in mind, Pansy managed to swallow her anger and forced a small smile on her lips, hoping this would release the dangerous look in his eyes.
"Draco," she said in her most alluring voice, "let's not argue anymore."
She saw his fists clench.
"Draco, please, don't let her ruin our relationship, please!"
"She not ruining anything," he said coldly. "She never even held a part in our 'relationship' to begin with."
However, Pansy knew better. She spotted something shift in the way he carried himself whenever that bitch had been mentioned. Something in his scowl changed. The corners of his eyes seem to soften, and his lips went a slight bit lax. A hot surge of envy and frustration rushed through her veins and reached her head. Pansy felt her disappointment so utterly that all she wanted to do was collapse and pound her fists onto the floor. Draco had never even spared an interested glance in her direction . . . not even a small smile to let her know that he did care for her well-being. What was so special about Granger? What captured his attention? Pansy had managed to draw him in to her if only she handled him very carefully. Yet what she had managed in six years, Granger did in only a matter of days. How had she failed so utterly?
"Why are you so interested in her, Draco?" Pansy demanded, her voice shaking not with fear but with rage.
"All of the interest I hold for her compares with the little interest I hold for you!" he yelled back.
"A spell, perhaps," Pansy said loudly while pacing, "some silly little charm to draw you to her. That must be the reason for your fascination with her. It can't be because you think her beautiful."
"You make as if I am in love with her."
"You might as well be!" Pansy erupted, feeling immediately repulsed at the thought. "First you chase her down the hallway to speak with her—"
Something you hadn't bothered to do for me, her mind silently added.
"—Then you touch those foul lips. And you did it so gently, my dear. What was she about to say, Draco? What offended you so that you stopped her in such a dramatic fashion?" She sneered. "Oh, I did see everything, love. I was willing to let it go, but I'm curious, how did you manage to touch her without retching your breakfast up?"
"You dirty little eavesdropper," he said, his voice dangerously quiet.
"Dirty? I'm dirty? Well, then, that mudblood must be the filthiest thing in the world. She is nothing but a pig, do you hear me, Draco? A simple little pig wallowing in the mud of drudgery and peasantry. She's the level of a farm beast—"
"You keep quiet," he said, voice beginning to rise, yet she did not cease her desperate ramblings, not noticing the threat in his tone.
"—A low-life, an Untouchable! A good-for-nothing little beast that deserves to be slaughtered. And you, I thought that you were better than that—that CREATURE, and yet you touched her and spoke with her! Are you becoming one of them, then—"
"Be silent!" he yelled and even now, blinded by anger, Pansy did not cease.
"—A speaker to saintly pigs, one who tolerates dirty witches who're on the same level as farm swine, the lover of mudblood Gryffin—"
Before Pansy could spot the blur, Draco's hand contacted burningly with her left cheek. She cried out, more in surprise rather than pain since Draco hadn't even put in an effort to hurt her, and he didn't . . . not physically.
Pansy covered her cheek with her hands. Hot tears began to make its way into her eyes, and she stared up at Draco who looked up at his hand almost in an unbelieving manner. That was truly the first time that he had lost his temper in front of a woman.
"Pigs," she muttered under her breath like a curse. "Pigs, all of them."
This remark stirred up his anger once more, despite it suddenly being deflated. Did she never let matters be! Yet this time, he managed to keep his face expressionless; something he had failed miserably at doing for the last five minutes.
"Aren't you going to apologize!" she nearly shrieked, not even noticing the streaming tears moistening her cheeks. With her curly blond hair in disarray and black make-up running down from her red eyes, she seemed almost like a vengeful demon, ready to devour him.
Draco closed his eyes for a few seconds then opened them, mostly in alert to whatever she might try to do to him. "Pansy, just let it go."
She blinked, her long lashes gathering together in soft spikes from her tears. "How can you be so cold!" she demanded. "You just hit me and all you can say is 'let it go?' Let what go!"
"Just calm yourself," he said, and even he could hear the agitation in his tone.
"Damn you, not until I hear an apology!"
"What good will an apology do, Pansy?" he asked, trying his best to keep the snarl out of his voice. He wasn't succeeding. "Will words make you feel that much better? Are you that pathetic? Strengthen your mind and rid those illusions of self-pity!"
There was a moment of shocked silence, and even Draco could hear how heartless and cruel his remark was.
"How can you be so cold?" she sobbed and she, too, ran off like Hermione.
Draco stood there for a few moments, dazed. He had hurt two women in the span of thirty minutes. That had to be some sort of a record for him. Yet he felt a bit strange, almost satisfied and ashamed at the same time for what he had just done. Almost everyone knew that Pansy had some school-girl infatuation with him, and he found it quite annoying. But he really never meant to slap her -- it just happened.
Draco sighed and covered his face with his hands wearily. How could he resort to striking a woman, for god's sake? Was he that desperate? Did he lose so much control over his emotions? That was the first time that he had felt so burned up about something; it all started unraveling for him when she had called Hermione a mudblood and a farm beast . . .
Damn that muggle-born witch, she was the cause of this destruction. He should have known better for ever letting her—as Pansy said—attract him so much. After all, women were dangerous creatures, capable of a man's ruin, and if this scene wasn't proof enough, Draco could rely on history to prove his thesis. A woman could bring down a Caesar, an emperor of mighty Rome just by love or mere attraction.
Draco ran a hand though his hair and made his own way to where Pansy headed: the Slytherin dormitories. Even if he wasn't the least bit sorry for what he did—of course he did feel a twinge of shame for he, after all, did strike a woman—he had to console her somehow. Anyway, he could never allow her to spread this episode around to anyone. It would utterly ruin his image, not to mention his father would hear of it from the Parkinson tycoon, resulting in an earsplitting what-for.
Even if his intentions weren't completely pure, this was a step away from the ordinary for Draco. He would have never bothered to console anyone whatever the situation; he had left countless of people alone after he had hurt them both physically and emotionally, yet Pansy did strike his sensitivity somehow. Perhaps it was the years that they have known each other.
Draco grimaced. First the muggle-born, now this. Was he growing soft? The thought repulsed him.
X
Hermione was surprised to find a stray tear escaping and making its way down her cheek. Hastily, she wiped it away and kept her face resolute, refusing to show any signs of sadness. She failed miserably as her brows gathered together, and her tears barely escaped her squeezed eyes, her heart hurting only in way that would hurt when someone she had begun to trust suddenly ripped her apart.
She rounded a darkened corridor, trying to keep to the shadows so none would see her cry.
"Who goes there?" a voice boomed. Peeves.
The apparition suddenly appeared in front of her and said in a mocking tone: "Oh! What do we have here? The Head Girl! Why is she crying I wonder?"
Then the poltergeist started dancing a ridiculous jig in mid-air, poking at her and saying in a sing-song voice, "Did you get a ninety-nine out of one hundred? Did Potter finally kick the bucket? Or did that Weasley lose his house?"
At the mention of her two friends, Hermione looked up furiously. "Peeves, if you carry on, I will have you evacuated from the school!"
He ignored her, singing—while dancing around in a circle around her: "The red-eyed Head Girl! What a little churl! Always so perfect!—"
"Away!"
In an instant, Peeves was gone in a cloud of colorful smoke. Hermione heard the little creature's scream of anger as it was transported magically to the other side of the castle. She turned around only slightly, still ashamed of her glossy eyes, to find a familiar head of dark hair staring at her, wand still raised from performing that spell.
"Hermione?" Blaise said from behind her, in a concerned and bewildered voice.
She turned away quickly, mortified to see that Blaise had caught her in this moment. "B-Blaise! What a surprise to see you—um, thanks for that. Quite the little monster isn't he? Though if Peeves reports you, then you'll get into so much trouble, I don't know if I'm going to be able to cover for you—you really should have let me handle things—"
She stopped her mindless ramblings as soon as his warm hand touched her shoulder.
"Are you all right?"
Hermione didn't respond for a few moments. She closed her eyes, hearing Draco's scathing comment in her ears: "He's using you, Granger. Why else do you think a death eater would ever want to speak with you . . ."
"Hermione, answer me," Blaise pleaded softly, yet—perhaps it was out of respect for her—he did not confront her. He did not face her for he knew that it was not what she wanted him to do. Instead, he patiently waited behind her, waiting for her to properly collect herself.
After a few minutes, Hermione did just that and after wiping her eyes for the final time, she forced a small laugh. "Silliest thing, you see. I got a nasty shock over Harry's condition. Luckily, it was a false alarm." Hermione still did not face him, but she got the feeling that Blaise did not believe her.
Except, he said gently, "Of course," from behind her, always so patiently waiting.
And again, Hermione's brain raced. How could he be a death eater? They are never so kind, so gentle. Please, he can't be a death eater, he can't! Please . . . And yet, her most central thought was how could Malfoy say such a thing to me?
Blaise, meanwhile, took out a handkerchief from a pocket. He made his way next to Hermione, and gingerly, placed the cloth upon her moist skin. The white cloth barely touched her cheeks before Hermione jerked away from him, staring at his hand wearily and suspiciously, torn between the prospect of accepting his token of friendship and refusing on the basis of a hunch. Yet if Draco could hurt her by denouncing her relationship with Blaise—along with Harry and Ron—in such a surprising way, who knew how this would turn out if Blaise did really turn out to be a true death eater and . . . someone who used her.
"I promise it's washed, Hermione," he remarked, letting a careful smile emerge.
Friend or enemy? she wondered, cursing Draco all the same. Always black and white. There were no grays with him, and he didn't want her to experience any gray moments either, the bastard. She took the cloth from him, and as soon as she felt the cotton between her fingers, Hermione was relieved. Blaise flashed her one of his brilliant smiles, and Hermione found herself letting out a soft chuckle, something of unforced quality that had a refreshing ring of originality to it.
"Thank you," she said, wiping the bottom of her eyes.
Blaise shrugged, putting his hands into his pockets. "It's the only gentlemanly thing to do."
Hermione thought over this, wondering if their encounters would always occur this way, as him surprising her so pleasantly every time. She smiled. Death eater or not, she couldn't hope to shun him just because of a silly mark on his arm. Besides, she didn't see anything anyway.
"You really shouldn't cry. It would break any man's heart, it would, your tears. Who did this to you, Hermione?"
She shook her head, running one slim finger over the small wet spot on the white cloth. "Please don't ask me about it now, Blaise. You're very kind, and I hate to say this so coldly to you, but I'd really rather not talk about it with you or anybody, as a matter of fact."
She looked up at him apologetically. His face betrayed a melancholy expression, and seeing his lips in such a thin line made her eyes more sorrowful. But she still did not tell Blaise anything, and he did not question her. Instead, he shook his head.
"You're a difficult person to figure out, Hermione. I suppose it's one of your many charms, though I do admit that I feel a bit deserted being left out." He smiled at her so kindly, even with this confession.
Draco wouldn't have done that, she thought to herself. He would have sneered and swore. How different they are! How so very different!
And she was quite happy with this certain boundary line set in between them. Admittedly, there were times when she found Draco's enigmatic and reserved personality a breath of fresh winter air after hours near the blazing hearth, but she found that being with Blaise was like being next to a friend of many, many years, one who would be so kind and so good and so understanding. It was amazing to see that such a man of the Slytherin house could have a personality so charming. She felt herself drawn to Blaise for a moment, staring into his dark eyes so exotic and new, and then she felt so tempted to spill out her everything said in her spat with Draco. But Hermione kept silent, and—in an uncanny way—Blaise seemed to truly grasp that she would not tell him anything if she did not want to.
He muttered something under his breath, perhaps it included the word 'stubborn,' but he still smiled at her, perhaps it growing a bit tired and weary.
"Why aren't you in class, Head Girl? Don't tell me you are ditching."
"Don't be absurd, Blaise. I have a free hour and a half . . . No, make it forty-five minutes now. I thought I would study, but it seems that my concentration skills have decided to go on break for awhile—"
"Say no more," he said, holding his hand up. "The metaphysics assignment, correct? Don't feel left out—it'll boggle anyone's brains for half an hour in the least. Well, let me tell you, after countless references to the books, I managed to find the correct formula—mind that I said formula, not the answer nor the way to actually do it correctly."
"It's further than I got," Hermione said rather glumly, almost in a grudging manner that someone other than her managed to get further on an extraordinarily difficult assignment.
Blaise studied her a moment, his head tilted. "Do you—do you want to take a look at it, then? I trust by the look on your face that you've practically given up on the that paper. I admit I have been hoping to run into you. You see, I know you are skilled in the uses of formulas."
Hermione looked down at her books.
"When was the last time they bought you a gift of thanks for copying off of your papers . . . " Draco had said.
"So what do you say, hm? How's about this collaborated exploration of the benefits of mutual learning?"
"What are you talking about?"
Blaise grinned. He didn't bother to answer because he knew that she understood him perfectly.
She shrugged nonchalantly. "Why not. Except that I was going to use the Gryffindor dormitories—"
"Well that does pose as quite an obstacle. I can't just stroll in there like I'm one of you, can I?"
"One of me?" Hermione interrupted sharply. "What do you mean, 'one of me?'"
Blaise seemed bewildered. "Er, one of you Gryffindors. Did—did I say something wrong?"
Hermione paused, biting down on her bottom lip and shook her head.
My God, I hate Draco Malfoy for implanting such mean and suspicious thoughts into my head. I shall never forgive him if this study goes awry.
All the while, despite his confused and innocent inquiry, Blaise nodded to himself in his mind. Ah, so he did say some things to her. The bastard. How do you like feeling envy, my friend? Of course, Blaise considered Hermione as Draco's own domain to conquer, yet it made him feel a bit giddy to see that she was so much more attracted to his genial nature than what most women usually preferred: enigmatic, sensual, dangerous, and passionate. This only increased his respect for Hermione more. She was her own woman, not like little air-heads like Pansy who so often dreamed of taking Draco and those qualities for herself. He rather felt sorry for Pansy. Draco Malfoy did not allow himself to be taken to anyone, especially a woman.
"The library," she said suddenly. "The library would be a good place. I was there recently. Saw some books on metaphysics. Didn't really go through them extensively myself, however."
And that was that. They left in a comfortable yet pondering silence.
Hermione kept her thoughtful gaze on the ground.
Blaise, also, was in deep thought. It was of the girl next to him. He risked a quick peek at her, found her face seemingly puzzled, and almost felt as ardent being next to her as a man who stared down at a lover. With a slight smile, he shifted the position of his feet a bit closer to her, and inch by inch, he had himself get nearer and nearer to Hermione.
She noticed this. Hermione transferred her gaze shyly up towards his and for a few precious moments, she stared deeply into his eyes. Something in them made her happy for she smiled. Then Hermione looked away in front of her.
Something like triumph filled his throat and with a slight sneer, he thought: Just try and best me this time, Malfoy.
Pansy had been crying uncontrollably on her bed. All she could think of was how much she wished to loathe and condemn Draco. It was all that comforted her. Then after a few minutes, all that seemed to comfort her evolved into thoughts of his smile and of the precious time they spent together.
All she wished was for him to come storming in, caress her, and kiss her tears away. But it crushed her to know that he would never do that. He would never be so kind, or gentle, or so caring because he was Draco Malfoy. He would never be that way with any woman—he would never give his cold, frozen heart to anyone.
Just then, as she lost herself in a deeper pit of sorrow, the door to her dormitory opened. At first, Pansy thought it was one of her school mates and quickly tried to rub away the smudges of her mascara, but then realized that those footsteps were too heavy, too masculine to be anyone other than him.
She looked up to find Draco Malfoy, staring down at her almost contemptuously but with a vestige of what seemed like sympathy and apology.
Her tears started to flow once more, just seeing him there, tall, strong, and just like Draco. The fact that he would probably never love her as she did him hit her with the force of running into a brick wall.
"Dry your tears, Pansy."
Her voice shook. "N-no, you mean bastard. You terrible, cold-hearted B-BASTARD!"
Draco raised both eyebrows lazily and started to make his way towards her. "Now don't be angry with me Pansy." His voice dripped honey. "It was just a slip-up. Just one in . . . how many years have we known each other? Six? Seven? Longer."
Pansy sat up on her bed, hugging a pillow to her breast. Draco continued his slow stride towards her.
"You hit me, Draco," she started quietly, her eyes finally dry with an enormous amount of self-restrain.
"It was an accident, Pansy," he said, sitting on the edge of her bed now, opening his arms slightly. "Purely accidental. You know me better than that—I would never hit a woman on purpose."
Pansy drew closer to him, utterly confused. Her tears were threatening to start flowing once more just hearing his voice saying those things to her. He was trying to make his amends!
Slowly, she attempted a smile and carefully wove her way into his arms and pressed her cheek against his chest. His arms wrapped loosely around her, as if she were but a child, but she did not care, as long as she was with her Draco Malfoy.
"This won't leave the room, Draco," she promised eagerly. This caused him to only tighten his grip around her. She sighed with pleasure. "This will be between us, love. You would never hit me like that again, I know. I love you so much, Draco, so much that you wouldn't imagine. Please say that you too will share that sort of emotion . . . not now, perhaps, but in the future?"
Draco did not answer. Pansy clutched at his crisp white shirt in desperation. "Draco?"
"I cannot tell the future, Pansy. Should I ever love you . . . perhaps, perhaps not."
This response left her both satisfied and unsatisfied. She relinquished her hold on his shirt and ran her long fingers down the trail of the buttons that kept his shirt fastened. One by one, driven only by her passion, she began to slowly unbutton them, praying that he would not stop her.
He didn't.
When Draco tossed his cloak to the other side of the bed and shrugged off the shirt, Pansy stared at him lovingly, so lovingly. Then she lowered her gaze to his naked chest, pressing her hands against his skin, cherishing the warmth of his muscles against her palms. Gingerly, she placed her lips on his collar bone, kissing each spot as tenderly as she could.
Then, with a swift hand, Draco placed his fingers on her chin and turned her eyes up towards his. Pansy felt her stomach growing warm as she stared into his intense eyes, knowing what they were to do. Closing her eyes, she kissed him on his cold lips which were first unresponsive then heatened. She looped her arm around Draco's neck to pull him in closer desperately, and placed her free hand on his manhood, already feeling him bulge. They fell together onto the bed, Draco's hands clutching her head, his fingers entwined with her thin strands of blond hair. It seemed that nothing would stop them.
X
Draco kissed her more fiercely than he had intended to. A sudden burst of passion erupted within him, and with that damned hand of hers there, warming him, arousing him . . .
He tried to keep his mind off of it. He knew that pleasure was what she, this thirsty girl underneath him, wanted and knew that was the only way she would keep her mouth shut.
However, under different circumstances, he would have let himself loose and enjoy what she was giving him so readily. Yet his mind felt heavy of another matters. He hadn't broken only one heart today but two. And that latter heart was the heart that he felt the urge to remedy, to set the pieces together again.
Draco's hands moved like a robot's to unbutton her blouse from past experience. His mind, however, only envisioned her, the Head Girl with her head held up so proudly, so damned loftily.
Then in an instant, he lost all of his heated craving. His lips and manhood began to grow lax in one strike. Draco pulled himself off of her, licked his lips, then walked over glumly to retrieve his shirt.
Immediately, Pansy sat up, her shirt unbuttoned and with a look of utter despair and confusing etched all over her face. "Draco. What—"
"This isn't right, Pansy. I can't make love to you now. Understand me."
Her eyes narrowed. "Damn you, Draco Malfoy! Understand you? I can never understand you! Why are you leaving me like this?"
He neglected to answer but by the look of disgust starting to darken her features, he had a nasty feeling that she knew what he was intending to do.
"Oh," she started, her voice icy. "It's her, isn't it? Granger, the Head Girl, the swine, the mudblood."
"What are you talking about, Pansy?" he asked, weary of her in general.
She stood up, buttoning up her shirt all the while. "Her. You're going to her! The mudblood! To apologize? To hold? To kiss? To love?"
"You're being ridiculous."
"No! No! You are! You really are fond of her, aren't you, Draco? But that is so . . . so unnatural, so unholy! How could you even bear to be in the same room with her? She radiates nothing but filth! How?"
Draco scowled at her, making sure to keep his hand in check.
"You are a traitor, Draco, a traitor to a cause which you held for seventeen years, a cause that you've carried ever since you were born! For god's sake, you are to receive your death eater inauguration in July!"
He glared at her. "Be quiet."
Pansy glared back. Her fists trembled. "No."
She grabbed his cloak from the other edge of the bed and threw it to the ground. Then, she stepped on it harshly.
Draco raised an enraged eyebrow. A sense of revulsion for her began to rise.
"You and your pitiful lies," she snarled then stomped out of the room.
Draco stood there, still scowling, feeling an anger that had risen just a few minutes ago when he had slapped the bitch. He whipped around and punched the wall beside him.
How could she, that whore, that insignificant little . . . His mind raged uncontrollably. Rage bubbled to his throat. She had never been that rebellious, that contumacious before.
He glowered at the wall. It served him right to try to seduce her to silence. Granger would have never acted like her. Granger would never be so unclean like Pansy no matter how low-born she was.
Thinking of her made him only angrier—after all, it was partially due to her existence that this had to happen to him. And he felt as if he would never forgive her for that. On the other hand, he desired her company, the mere presence of her near him when they were alone, quietly drudging because of some menial task set upon them.
After this episode, Draco felt the longing for her more acutely. He was convinced no matter how much he loved someone, he would never have to resort to making love or giving kisses to keep the "loved" one quiet.
Draco bent down to pick up his cloak, thinking more about Hermione Granger. Pansy said that he was becoming fond of her. Was he now? Of course she occupied his thoughts a bit more these days than she used to, but that didn't mean that he was growing to like this woman. No, it merely proved that the time they spent together was causing him to become more aware of her presence, of her personality, and of her infectious, happy, bright charm.
Just as Draco grabbed his cloak, he spotted something under Pansy's bed. He paused, pushing her chest aside, and narrowed his eyes. It was a stack of green books. They seemed strangely familiar.
He took one from the stack and perused through it. The language was not recognizable at all. Then he remembered what this was. These were the books that he and Hermione had stacked in the library during their first detention.
Draco's mind drifted towards Hermione again. She came to mind in always the wrong times. At times, he wondered truly if he was growing fond of her. He clutched the book tightly for a few minutes, then, his heart resolute on finding her, Draco sighed. Perhaps he would know if he had taken a liking to the lady if he spoke with her.
Right after he deposited the book into his room trunk, Draco went over the things that he would say to her. Not to apologize—bother, he would smother himself with a pillow before he apologized to any muggle-born—but to soothe her . . . quiet her. He wondered why he was going bothering to speak to her at all about this. After all, she had made him angry.
She deserved what he had said to the fullest extent, and besides, everything he said was true, not made up.
He made his way out and passed the dungeons near the Slytherin dormitory entrance. What worried him more was Pansy and her mouth. The girl could spread a rumor horrible enough to silence even the proudest Slytherin. Would she tell the others about his . . . dilemma with the Gryffindor Head Girl?
Draco scowled at the thought. He would have to set her straight somehow, make it seem as this was all a mistake and that she had been jumping to conclusions.
Then he wondered just where Hermione was, Pansy flitting from his mind like an extinguished candle flame. And then he wondered just what he would say. She would allow him to speak with her, wouldn't she? And if not, he'd simply force her to speak with him.
He made a sharp turn and found the library doors. If Hermione wasn't here, then she'd be in the dormitory. He simply couldn't go in there, even if he wanted to.
Taking in a deep breath, he stepped in. At first the brightness of the windows blinded him. The Slytherin dormitories had their curtains drawn and obviously the dungeon area was not the best possible place for light.
He browsed through the shelves of books that greeted him, gazing lazily at the titles and the covers. Madame Pince looked up disapprovingly from the desk she sat behind. Draco grabbed a book from the shelves and smiled disarmingly in her direction. In response, she shook her head and clucked her tongue with a scowl.
Draco made his way fluidly between the shelves noiselessly like a snake, hoping to find Hermione and hoping that when he did find her, he would know what to say.
Instead, only a few shelves from the circle of desks where students came to study, he heard a chiming laughter. Draco looked up. He recognized that laugh. It was Hermione.
He made his way through the shelves, carefully weaving his way through the library-users, making sure that he did not seem to eager to speak with her. When he was just about to emerge from the shadowy collection of texts, what he saw made him stop dead in his tracks.
They sat together by the window with their backs turned to him. And he, the dirty death eater, leaned over with his lips near her ears, whispering something. Then she laughed once more, her brown hair now a brilliant shade of glimmering auburn against the golden sunlight that poured in through the glass.
She reached out her hand, Hermione did, to brush her fingers against Blaise's cheek, as if flicking away a stray crumb. His lips curved in an indulging smile, accompanied with eyes that seemed to glitter with hunger. Ravenous hunger for her. Or something that Blaise wanted from her, either physically or emotionally. Why else would a death eater gain a fondness for her, a muggle-born part of the Gryffindor house, constant companion of Harry Potter?
Draco literally felt sick to his stomach, seeing Blaise's gaze at her so adoringly, so reverently, so thirstily.
All thoughts of justification flew from his mind. He spun around on his heel and setting the book back onto the first shelf he found empty, Draco made his way through the library doors and out of the accursed place. There was twenty minutes of his free period left, and then after two more periods, he would have to face her in Filch's dungeons below.
He stumbled his way into his dormitory and flung himself onto his soft mattress. Draco still felt sick, as if he had swallowed a box of needles and Novocain. They poked through his flesh but he could not feel them, only keeping the dreadful knowledge that those sharp needles were there to torment him. When he closed his eyes, he saw the rich strands of her hair, the image defiled by Blaise, the dark-haired rogue who had made it his life's duty to taunt and gall Draco as much as he could. Only because of this stupid imprint on his shoulder blade.
Draco could see no other reason why Blaise would suddenly gain an attraction to Hermione. No reason why he would even bother to be with Hermione unless he really did like her.
Whatever the reason was, Draco could not help thinking to himself, as he stared up blankly at the ceiling, this one cryptic line that his mind ran off.
"I was too late . . ."
End Notes: I hope you enjoyed this uber-long chapter! Review please!