Next chapter! :D I like this one :) special thanks go to bluebook1496, kvance and Ariel for you reviews - as ever, feedback is always welcome and totally appreciated :) Also, I am not JK Rowling, I'm just playing with her toys. Enjoy!
Draco had hoped that Hermione wouldn't notice the burn marks on his fingers.
When he'd slouched back into the dorm after another session in the library another black-bordered envelope had been waiting for him on his bed. He'd been careful not to touch it. He'd just cast the levitation charm – intending to float it over to the fireplace – but the second the spell had been cast the damn thing burst into flames and zoomed towards his face. He'd managed to bat it away and fling it into the fireplace, but the ends of his hair had been singed and the skin had blistered all across his hands.
That had been two days ago, and the skin on his fingers was still red raw. The shiny skin on his fingers twinged painfully as he shifted his bag higher on his shoulder and entered the library. He slunk over to their desk at the back, ignoring the suspicious looks from everyone he passed.
Hermione was waiting for him. She smiled up at him in a distracted sort of way, and her eyes flickered over his stinging hands. A little crease appeared in between her eyebrows.
"Are those burns?"
He shrugged and sat down next to her, pulling his shirtsleeves further down his arms. He'd tuck his hands right back up inside his sleeves, if he could.
Hermione's eyes narrowed.
"How did you –"
"Never mind," he snapped, dropping his bag onto the desk in what he hoped was a very final sort of way. It did not work – Hermione's eyes narrowed even further.
"It was from one of those letters, wasn't it?"
He said nothing. She sighed.
"You know, you aren't fooling anyone. Everyone knows someone's got it in for you after that letter caught fire in the library, there's no point keeping quiet about it now. Why don't you go to McGonagall and –"
"No."
"Well, why not?"
Draco looked down at his burned fingers. His red skin gleamed up at him.
He could have gone to McGonagall, it was true. Or to Slughorn, or to any other teacher in this place – but he would never have dreamed of doing it. Teachers solved other people's problems, people who couldn't fix them by themselves. Malfoys solved their own problems.
And besides, it wasn't as if he didn't deserve those letters, after what he'd done…
"Look, can we not talk about this now?" he muttered, "I've just been told my Charms essay is sub-par and frankly, Granger, I'm too distraught to think of anything else."
To his amazement, she snorted with laughter. She ducked behind a stack of books to avoid Madam Pince's steely glare and grinned up at him, her bright eyes shining.
He'd never made her laugh before.
His face suddenly felt very hot.
"Come on then," she said, still smiling, "hand us your essay, I'll see what I can do with it."
He pulled a roll of parchment out of his bag and handed it to her. She took it from him, unrolled it and at once her deep brown eyes darted across the paper. She read quickly, silently, and chewed her bottom lip as her eyes danced across the page.
He couldn't stop looking at her. Somehow, when he looked at her, it was easier to ignore the pain smarting in his fingers.
She straightened up. "It's not too bad, considering. There's no major structural flaws and it flows well; you just need to make sure you widen your focus. It's no good just talking about the effects of the Bubble-Head Charm alone, you'll need to compare the theorists' opinions as well…"
She leaned forward. Her arm brushed against his and heat exploded in his cheeks.
"See here, this would have been a perfect place to talk about Widdershins' latest piece in The Apprentice's Guide about the effectiveness of…"
Her hair was spilling out of its ponytail and tickling across his shoulder. It was long, far longer than he remembered it being, and curls sprang out of her flimsy hair-tie with explosive force. The strands of her hair kept falling down across his shoulder, as though they wanted to touch him…
It was really very difficult to pay attention to Professor Flitwick's sharp, spidery comments on the margins of his essay.
They'd ended up in the library for hours, and by the time Hermione had finished writing out his reading list – which was only a little bit shorter than the library catalogue – a clock was chiming ten somewhere in the castle and Madam Pince was chivvying them out of library. The two of them gathered up their books as she shooed out a crowd of harassed-looking Ravenclaws and dawdled down the corridors, clutching piles of books to their chests.
They did not say anything to each other.
Draco thought about saying something – anything – but every single sentence that popped into his head sounded unbearably stupid. So, what've you got planned for the holidays? - too banal, everyone had probably asked her that already. Heard from Weasley lately? – No, not Weasley, he didn't want to talk about him at all, least of all to his girlfriend. Reckon the snow will last? – oh Merlin, no, not the weather, that was worse than talking about Weasley…
"So," said Hermione, her voice ringing around the empty corridor.
He jumped. She wasn't looking at him, but staring out of the window, watching another fall of snow slide down the glass.
"Good snow this year."
The torches flickered in the silence.
"Yeah."
"How long do you think it'll last?"
He shrugged, and one of his books dropped to the floor. He bent down to pick it up.
"Do you…do you think it'll last until the Yule Ball?" asked Hermione.
Her voice was shaking. He'd never heard it so high, either. It was almost as if she was nervous, but when he looked up at her, he could not see her face.
He straightened up.
"I don't know," he said, "maybe."
Merlin's pants, thought Draco, think of something to say…
"Do you think you'll go this year?" she asked.
He froze.
She was still staring out the window. Her voice was carefully casual but she still wouldn't look at him – she was cradling her books to her chest like a child and all her could see of her was her back, her mane of brown curls, and the backs of her well-shaped legs disappearing into the folds of her grey school skirt…
What was she thinking? What would she say, if he put his hand on her shoulder and turned her round to face him? Would she mind? Would she blush? Would she smile?
He cleared his throat.
"I don't know," he said, and now his own voice was shaking and sweat was prickling on the palms of his hands. The torchlight flickered on her hair, casting brilliant bronze lights right through it. It was mesmerising.
He cleared his throat again.
"I'm not sure if people would want me to be there."
Her shoulders sagged.
"Is that what you think?"
Her voice was heavy now, and for some reason her words filled him with inexplicable dread. It reminded him of the time when he was eight and had smashed his mother's favourite vase. He'd bumped into its cabinet while playing Trolls and there was a moment when it lurched towards the edge and he had known it was going to break. That old feeling was flooding through him now – a deep, childish fear that something was about to be broken…
"I'd better go," she said, still not looking at him, "it's getting late."
She left, without looking back.