Words Unspoken

POV: Hermione

The high-pitched shrieks of "MURDER IN THE BATHROOM! MURDER!" reverberate down the hall, bringing Ron and me skidding to a halt at the other end of the corridor that leads toward the boy's loo. A frantic ghost is wailing and flying straight at us. I have the strong urge to duck out of the way, but she manages to stop only inches away, hovering right in front of us.

"That wretched Potter boy's killed him! My poor Draco! Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh! Hermioneeee! What am I to do? He'll never visit any longer because he's deaaaaad!"

Myrtle's hysterical crying clutches at my panicked brain and my stuttering heart. It crosses my mind that it could be that Draco might stay to haunt the place with her, but I don't mention my thought since it sickens me to imagine such a future for him, if he is indeed dead.

"Go get Professor Snape, Myrtle!" I command. "STOP screeching at once and GO FIND SNAPE!"

Gulping, I watch her whisk away. My heart stops a beat.

Malfoy, dead?

"MALFOY!!" Harry's panicked cry reaches my ears. By the way Ron whips his head toward me, he must've heard Harry, too. We race toward the bathroom door. A copious amount of water flows out from under it, streaks of red filtering through it. The sight makes me shudder. Ron freezes beside me and I know he's seen the horrific sight as well.

I feel an icy cold sweep up against my back and realize Myrtle's returned with the aforementioned professor.

"Stay back!" Snape's commanding tone is non-negotiable.

We hear Snape's vicious growl at Harry and then what can only be a melodic recitation of a counter-curse to whatever's got all this watered-down blood rushing out onto the corridor's cobblestones. Beyond the door, we hear a boy's anguished weeping, and then Snape is in the hall carrying an unconscious, broken Malfoy in his arms. He's striding toward the hospital wing and I make to rush to his side.

Before I can take two steps to follow, I feel a strong hand grab my wrist. Tears are sliding down my face as I try to unsuccessfully yank myself out of Ron's vice-like grip.

"Hermione! NO, HERMIONE!" he shouts, attempting to reach my brain, which has shut down at the ghastly sight of Malfoy's listless body being half carried in Snape's arms.

"You can't go to him, Hermione!" Ron is desperately saying in my ear. "Hermione! No one can know about you and him. Remember?! 'Mione? Remember? You'll only make it worse for him. His housemates can't know! Their parents are Death Eaters. He'd be a sitting duck if they saw you weeping over him on his sick bed. Hermione! Are you listening? He'll be labelled a blood traitor. You can't go to him!"

Ron holds me forcibly against him. His arms brace me against a grief that threatens to shatter and keeps me from throwing caution to the wind to chase after Snape and Malfoy, heedless of the consequences.

The incessant pounding of what can only be my own heartbeat in my ears has me dazed and only half-alert to the happenings around me. I am aware enough, though, to notice Snape's return, which could mean Malfoy isn't dead. Or maybe he is... dead. I cry out in frustration at my powerlessness to go and check.

Through a steady stream of tears, I spy a panicked Harry leave the bathroom shortly after the professor's reappearance. He belatedly notices Ron and me huddled together and turns to ask Ron something. Harry completely ignores my presence which is just fine by me. I feel Ron hand Harry something from the book bag at my side and with hardly a thanks Harry races off only to return with his own knapsack, stumbling back into the bathroom.

Minutes later, Snape bangs out of the door grumbling something that sounded like, "Damn, that Potter! Just like his worthless father! Roonil Wazlib, my arse!"

There hasn't been any movement since.

I sit with Ron, his hand still grips my wrist, worried I'll run off, I suppose. How long has it been?

Minutes?

Hours?

At last I am able to lift my head from Ron's shoulder to whisper the one thing that's been tugging at the edge of my consciousness.

"Where is he, Ron?"

"Who, Hermione? Draco? I haven't a clue. Mdm. Pomfrey's I suppose but we'll ask Snape later."

"No, Ron, where's Harry?"

"I dunno, he hasn't come out since Snape left," comes the stilted, sorrowful response.

I can't move. Can't think, really. I truly don't want to see Harry. I don't feel like listening to him fret over his reckless mistake. I've known him too long to know that this will scar him more deeply than the actual cuts he'd sliced into Malfoy. The more disturbing thing is that I find myself glad he'll suffer this alone without my shoulder this time. I am nearly gleeful that Harry may even realize how deranged and thoughtless he's been, and that what he's done to Malfoy, whatever that was, may just leave a permanent dark mark on his very soul.

Despite my diving headlong into a morass of dark emotions, I am somehow able to understand that my grief over the sight of a possibly lifeless Draco has manifested into these fairly evil, vengeful thoughts. The pull of this powerful emotion is like nothing I've felt before. This alone is why I find myself not wanting to go to Harry straight away. I am so afraid of what I might do or say to him if he does decide to emerge from the bathroom with some sort of useless apology.

As I think this, I sense him come up to me from behind.

I can feel the rivulets of water that seep beneath my feet as he stands there silent and drenched.

I can smell him, the coppery smell of blood mixed with a woodsy scent that is uniquely Harry. It makes me want to vomit.

Funny, it's the same smell of post-battle Harry that I recognize after each of his run-ins with Voldemort. Each of those times, I'd thrown my arms around him in utter relief and joy to find him alive. At this moment, I find I can't summon the least bit of happiness that Malfoy hadn't been able to hit him with the smallest of hexes.

Harry offers no apology. I can hear him sniffle. His near silence stokes my anger. His tiny sorrowful sound reignites the flame of fury inside me. I close my eyes quietly reciting a spell to give me calm. I might as well have just counted to ten, for all the good that it did me. I have neither wand nor the necessary state of mind to cast such a charm. The mere act of chanting it quietly, though, does seem to keep me from attacking Harry and tearing him apart with my bare hands.

Ron, beside me, says nothing. I wait for something to happen that I can't even begin to define.

Then, I feel the weight of Harry's hands on my shoulders.

This is my undoing.

"GET OFF ME, YOU MURDEROUS CRETIN!" I screech, whipping myself around and away. His arms fall uselessly to his sides.

His eyes go wide with shock at my venomous attack. The panic I sense coming from him spurs me on.

"What exactly was his sin, Harry, that you would try to kill him?" I seethe. "Was it just because he wanted to be with me? Or was it because I wanted to be with him... over you?"

I watch his green gaze narrow, his mouth starts to pucker into a scowl of epic proportions. I continue on, determined to hurt Harry, because I cannot stand the agony of perhaps it being my fault that this whole tragedy occurred.

"Does he deserve to die because you, the Great Harry Potter, simply wills it so?" I yell, my chest heaving at the sheer effort of hurling the words at him. My ragged breathing fills the space between the three of us.

"Hermione–"

"DON'T YOU DARE SPEAK TO ME, HARRY POTTER! Don't you dare try to apologize," I'm half sobbing now, falling against a shocked-silent Ron as I rain down insult after insult on Harry.

"What sort of madman uses unknown curses out of scurrilous books? What you did to him in there was not honorable!" I scream. "What on earth were you trying to prove? This attempt at unmanning Malfoy for no other purpose than to heal your damaged pride is not dignity, Oh, Chosen One! This is the worst sort of cowardice!"

I relish the grimace he involuntarily shoots at me. The next words that flash into my overwrought brain are ones I know I should not say because I know he might never be able to forgive me for them. Unfortunately, I am beyond censoring myself to spare his feelings. My fury has me spitting out the final blow.

"And your father and mother, Harry?" I hiss meanly. "They would have been ashamed of you and what you did today!"

I hear Ron's gasp and Harry's sharp intake of breath as I grab onto Ron's sleeve to drag him along as I stalk back to our common room.

For what seems like hours, I fidget on the chaise in my worry for Malfoy. The open book on the sofa next to a napping Ron is long forgotten as I wait for word about his health.

Earlier, I'd strained to hear any sort of gossip from fellow Gryffindors making their way back into the dorm. All I've been able to gather is that Pansy is making a huge stink about the professors not expelling Harry for his use of a deadly curse. I silently praise her for this.

Who would have thought I'd ever side with Pansy about anything?

I also knew McGonnagall called Harry to the carpet. Upon his return, Harry's grousing signaled to me that he's still in complete shock and denial about having just cast a near unforgiveable curse. He was also being irritatingly blasè about having nearly killed Malfoy. According to Harry, and what seemed like the whole of the house, the worst thing to come of Harry's unfortunate mistake was that he would be missing the big Quidditch match of the year. If you listened to the extent of his whining, he'd received the worst of it simply because he'd be serving detention with Snape for what might have as well be the rest of his godforsaken life.

During the thick of his complaining, I'd made a noise of abject disgust, mentioning that Harry had just about gotten away with murder. He then had the nerve to yell at me about my over-concern about his continued possession of that blasted book! We'd rowed about that until he'd admitted he'd squirreled it away somewhere. Then, Ginny turned on me. I tired quickly of her naive arguments in Harry's behalf, deciding silence was the best way to handle my frustration.

Ron's face had been behind a book the entire time. I knew he hadn't been reading, just staying close to make sure Harry and I didn't do bodily harm to one another.

So now, hours later, the room had at last cleared and it is just Ron and me left.

I itch to make my way to the hospital ward. I'd tried three hours ago, under the pretense of needing a sleeping draught. I'd arrived quite undetected, only to be greeted with the sight of Pansy weeping over a still unconscious Malfoy. Something akin to envy twisted deep in my chest. In her grief, she hadn't seen me enter and I beat a hasty retreat.

Though I ache to go to Draco, I know my Disillusionment Charm isn't good enough for such an excursion. After all, I dare not use it outside of nearly closed bathroom stalls. I want to tear out my hair in complete frustration. I attempt to push aside my distress by trying to think of a way to go to him, and that's when I hear the sound of footsteps to my right.

I don't need to look up. I already know who it is.

Harry.

Wordlessly he approaches. I move my face to view him. My expression shutters, but not before I notice how he claims an expression of agonized repentance. At last he's wearing the exact pained look I'd been waiting to see from him. I needed to see him this way to remind myself why I still want to call him my friend.

I stare at him, this boy, nearly a man. His eyes tell me he's only just begun to struggle with what has come to pass today. He'd been in fight mode since it happened. The reprimands have only poured salt into his self-inflicted wounds. I know Harry's impulse to shout out against his attackers is a result of him having grown up in a home where he'd been voiceless.

He'd first alluded to his fear that the good in him might be silenced again when he'd revealed his shocking connection with Voldemort that night at the Burrow when he'd clutched at his head, screaming himself out of a nightmare. He'd confided how he was paralyzed with dread that the searing pain in his scar might mean he was sharing Voldemort's thoughts and becoming more like the evil he personifies.

Now today, after having cast a curse meant to kill, whether Harry meant to or not, I wonder if he'll quake in terror at his dark powers as soon as he realizes what he's done. I wonder if Harry might feel anything like what I felt after having the uncontrollable dark thoughts that swept through me earlier in the corridor.

Knowing my disturbing connection to Slytherin brings me new worries about my potential with the dark arts. This is why I refrain from saying anything more to Harry as he stands in front of me. Instead, I look at his watery green eyes, staring at me through his glasses. I see is mouth and try to remember the smile he'd sometimes show us during our younger days when we believed that bad was wrong and right was good. Black and White, nothing in between. Now that we're older, I've come to see the varying shades in between the light and dark. These uncomfortable greys, as mercurial as Malfoy's gaze, are quite unnerving.

Despite Harry's swaggering bluster earlier, I know deep down he hadn't really meant to hurt Malfoy this way. I know this not because he'd said as much during our fight about his careless use of the unknown spell and his unwavering defense of the half-blood prince, but because I know Harry and he simply wouldn't knowingly do something so evil and twisted.

Right?

I see the pain in his gaze, so palpable I have to turn away. My thoughts turn inward to discover, with some relief, exactly what I need to take the first tentative step onto the long road leading to my forgiving him for this madness. Out of necessity, I turn to my steadfast belief in Harry's ultimate goodness. Yet, I still cannot bring myself to forgive Harry for his recklessness. It is, however, heartening to know that he likely can't forgive himself either. There is some comfort in that.

Harry stops an arm's length away from me. I feel the weight of his stare bore into the crown of my head since I'd long moved my gaze back to the tips of his shoes.

I wearily look up at him when he whispers my name.

He drops something into my lap. I look down and to my amazement my legs and everything beneath them have disappeared from view.

His Invisibility Cloak.

"You can go see him if you go under that," he says. I finger the material. I can't define the emotion in his voice. I turn to focus on the cloak. With awe, I watch my hand disappear into its folds. I'll never get over the magnitude of this magic. I listen to his erratic breathing, wondering if he'll say anything more.

As if he is forcibly ripping the words out of throat, Harry hoarsely adds, "Tell him that I'm sorry."

I look up again to express just a bit of gratitude. But, he is gone and there is so much left unsaid.

POV: Malfoy

I wake to hear a bodiless sniffle.

Sweet Merlin! Was it that infuriating ghost?

Again?!

I should never have said anything to her about being thankful I wasn't dead. She has visited me five times already and I've only been in and out of consciousness for two hours. I shudder at the thought that she might be watching me in my potion-induced sleep.

Tawdry specter!

From beneath my lashes, I surreptitiously dart my eyes around the darkened hospital wing, relieved to find it bereft of the shimmering outline of Moaning Myrtle.

I let out a tiny sigh of relief.

I still feign sleep, however, because the unmistakable sound of crying seems to be coming from right above me. I wonder if she can become invisible. For whatever reason, likely the effects of the magical draughts I had been given for pain, my muddled brain cannot recall if ghosts can completely conceal themselves from human sight.

The fringe at my brow is gently swept aside by fingers I cannot see. Not cold, but not exactly warm. The feather-light touch softly moves to search my face, attempting to discover wounds as I appear to rest. I hear a soft gasp and feel the stutter of a fingertip on my right cheek, a part of my face that hurts to high heaven now that I've bothered to run the tip of my tongue on the inside of it. I wonder if whatever Potter did to me will leave scars.

The weight of someone coming to sit beside me on my bed intrigues more than alarms. There is a slight press at my right thigh.

The touch of a finger on the button resting in the V of my collarbone has my eyes flying open. I now feel the warmth of invisible fingers slowly undoing the silky pajama top Pansy retrieved from my dorm room for me to wear while I am made to recuperate in the hospital wing. I watch, mesmerized as my buttons appear to slowly, magically, unbutton themselves. I know, though, that it's someone and not some magic that is doing it. I have also managed to know somehow, despite my shock of being undressed this way, that it's a feminine someone.

The soft crying turns into a quieter snuffle. I wonder at the sound of it while remaining stock still as my bandaged chest comes into view. It occurs to me that I should not be aroused by what is happening to me, but I find that I am... quite fascinatingly aroused. This ends, however, when I hear her sharp gasp as the extent of my wounds is revealed. For the first time I, too, look down to see the expanse of white cotton gauze against what had been my once unmarred chest.

The sight makes me gasp, too.

I feel her bestow a careful touch along the magical tape that holds the bandages to my damaged skin. Her weeping then begins anew. I hiss at a sudden stinging at the center of my chest. My fingers grip the hospital sheets at either side of my hips.

Bugger! But, it hurt to bloody hell! I swear I am going to hex that wanker, Potter, to oblivion just as soon as I'm back on my feet!

I tense, not knowing what will happen now that I have shown myself to be awake and aware. The movements beside me and the gentle strokes against my body stop just as mysteriously as they'd begun. I can only hear her laboured breathing and her stifled sobs.

In vain, I stare into the darkness.

Am I dreaming?

Or do I smell the scent of apricots?

"Granger?" I whisper hopefully.

In blind faith, I reach out in front of me to grab hold of material I cannot see.

POV: Hermione

"You're leaking."

His sardonic tone brings a wan smile to my face. If he can affect that voice, then I know he will live to see another day.

"You're bleeding because of me," I whisper apologetically, trying unsuccessfully to stem the tears.

"No, I was bleeding because of Potter," he replies bitterly. "Most of the cuts are closed now. There are just a few rips left that need the bandaging."

I stare at the bandages then back at him.

A few? Merlin! How bad had it been?

He returns my stare curiously.

I hadn't realized he'd been awake while I'd taken the liberty of finding out for myself how badly Harry had damaged him. It wasn't until Draco had whispered my name and I'd caught the glitter of hope beyond the befuddlement that I found myself thrilled at the sight of him. Something quite wonderful burst inside of me to see this vulnerability... his desire and hope that it was me who sat invisible beside him.

His fingers had gently pulled at the Invisibility Cloak, making it slide down past my shoulders to expose me to him. It now lays bunched around my waist, atop his thighs. I'd been leaning over to inspect his bandages. My face and my hand still hover just above his chest. I know my hair is a frizzy mess, my face puffy and my eyes bloodshot. But I don't care. I just want to look at him and make sure he isn't on his deathbed. I'd been so single-minded in my task that it only just occurred to me that I'd undressed him without so much as a by-your-leave.

"You have to stop," he orders.

"Stop what?" I ask, not entirely sure if he's angry at my bold removal of his nightshirt.

"Leaking. Crying. Whatever," he says, clenching his teeth again as though in pain at the admission.

"Why? I can cry if I like, Malfoy," I say, surprised at how annoyed I am by his demand.

"It hurts me when you cry," he admits reluctantly. His eyes, full of dark grey storm clouds meet my weepy brown. I watch the grimace form on his face. With one hand he weakly tries to wipe at my face. At the feel of his fingertips touching my cheek, I feel a fresh stream of tears fall.

"It hurts here when you do that. Please, Granger," he gasps. "Just stop."

I look down. The strong fingers of his other hand touch the bandage that cover his heart. I melt a little at the gesture, but upon closer inspection, I realize the bandages beneath his fingertips are wet with my tears which must have seeped through to salt his wounds. I want to laugh at my melodrama and find myself utterly embarrassed at such romantic fancies.

"Oh! I'm so sorry!" I exclaim softly, moving swiftly to get up. But before I can stand, his hand shoots out to grab mine and our fingers automatically intertwine.

I watch little sparks fly around our joined hands. He turns to look at them, too.

"Some magic," he whispers wondrously.

That same magic as before. I smile at the pretty sight of it. I want so desperately to believe he's pleased by it too.

"Don't go," he whispers, voice thick with emotion. His hand tugs me back to his bedside. "Please. I had not even realize I wanted to see you until..."

I slowly sit down again, sending him a coy smile.

"Until?" I prod curiously.

"...until I saw you," he says with a small smile, running his thumb against the back of my hand watching in amazement as the little sparks fly again.

"You're alright, then?" I ask, hiding my gaze beneath my lashes, color rushing to my cheeks. This is the first time I'd ever been alone with a half-dressed boy, never mind feeling the absolute rightness of clutching this boy's hand and hearing him tell me he wants me... to stay.

His mirthless chuckle calls my focus back to him.

"I am alive if that is what you mean," he supplies. "And, I have decided that I most definitely dislike the sensation of pain."

I smile at his spoiled tone.

"This being the case," he continues, "I realize that I must do all I can to postpone my inevitable death. You can thank Potter for that dose of reality, I suppose."

"Well, thank goodness for little blessings," I joke quietly. "I suppose you'll be staying alive to seek your revenge then," I toss lightly, but not without some venom.

His fingers tighten around mine.

"What is this? Such a conniving thought from a die-hard Gryffindor?! Do not tell me you are turning Slytherin on me, Granger."

In his weariness, it's difficult for him to hide his surprise at the ill-disguised acid in my reply. I jump a little. His words hit too close to the truth I want to keep from him.

"Never, Draco," I smile softly, quickly hiding my dismay. "It's just that I know the Slytherin in you."

"And you are still here?" he inquires teasingly, though it seems he's trying to convey something of what he secretly believes of himself. "My, you are quite mad to want to be around the likes of me, Hermione. Why won't you listen to Potter? I am too dangerous for you to be around."

"Perhaps," I rely cryptically. "But, I don't plan on abandoning you, Ferret. You won't be rid of me so easily."

"Interfering Gryffindor," he sighs, feigning irritably. "I hope you are not putting your misplaced faith in a dastardly Slytherin like me, Granger."

"Perhaps you need to have a little faith in the both of us working together, Malfoy."

The teasing smile that had been playing on his lips at our banter, slides away.

"Are we back to this again, Granger?" His eyes flash silver in the moonlight at his hushed accusation.

"You want me to stay with you, and I mean to, Draco." I say with some reprimand. "And seeing as you're now a captive audience, why not speak of this? It's as good a topic as any." I raise an eyebrow when he forcefully drops my hand. I continue undaunted by his cold retreat from me. "Ron tells me that you don't mean to actually take me to Voldemort."

"I'm tired," he says, clearly faking a yawn.

"You're a liar."

"I never claimed not to be," he retorts petulantly. "But, I am being quite honest about this, Granger. I still have no intention to lay you at the feet of a cold-blooded killer. Let Potter face him, for Merlin's sake! It is the way of things. It's what is expected!"

"So, now you claim you are content with the way of things? You mean to tell me that you are unbothered with the idea of standing by and accepting what is expected, Malfoy?" I hiss hotly. "Tell me, how has that worked out for you in the case of your family's expectations of you?"

He huffs, turning his gaze away. He knows if he hadn't fought convention, he'd still be a bigoted tosser, alone, scared witless and looking at the receiving end of Voldemort's wand.

"What can I do to convince you that we can do this?" I ask, trying to hide the desperation in my voice.

"Why do you even want to do this, Granger?" He rounds back, glaring at me.

"I don't want you to kill Dumbledore," I answer quickly. "I don't want Harry to face death when I can help make it easier for him to conquer Voldemort." I take a deep breath and stare into his now wide, confused stare. "I don't want you to become something that you are not because of some misbegotten sense of duty. I don't want you, or Harry, to feel like you are my protectors. I don't want you to risk your life as a double agent. This... this..."

I gesture toward his maimed chest.

"Draco, you have no idea what it did to me when I saw you after Harry's attack. Ron wouldn't let me go to you in order to keep everything secret. I watched Snape carry you away and I couldn't calm my fear and grief at seeing you so hurt! If Harry hadn't allowed me to use this cloak, I'd still be crying and helpless upstairs. I CAN'T be that weepy witless girl, Malfoy! Don't make me into that girl! I have an opportunity to do something and I mean to take it."

He averts his gaze from mine, but not before I catch a glimmer of emotion that I hope beyond hope isn't something I'd just imagined.

"Hermione, you are asking me to place you in extreme peril," he states tonelessly. "You want me to accept your insane plan that has you taking up the role of protector for the lot of us."

"Yes," I reply confidently, for the first time feeling the blood of my forefathers pump through my veins. My impassioned reply has me unthinkingly placing my hands on his shoulders. I gasp at the scorching electricity that shoots pleasurably through me at the touch of my bare skin on his body. I hear his soft sound of surprise, too. He recovers a split second before I do.

"And what if I don't want you to become something that you are not because of some misbegotten sense of duty, Hermione?" he replies with a shudder. I like to think this involuntary reaction is because of my unexpected touch. I dislike thinking he might be unaffected by my closeness.

"Draco, let me help you, please," I beseech. "I'm stronger than you think."

Now that my hands are on him, curiosity and the aching need to assure myself of his wellness assail my senses. I give in to my desire to touch him. A little braver than my shaking hands show, I run the fingers of my right hand across his collarbone. His eyes widen at the feel of my wandering touch. A foreign thrill rushes through me as I feel his heartbeat quicken at the pulse point at his neck which now lies beneath my left hand. With a turn of my wrists, I brazenly run my hands down his sides. I hear the swift intake of his breath. I realize I am holding my own life-giving breath as I trace the contours of his muscles, contracting, tensing under my journeying hand. I don't really know what I'm doing, only that I want to do it.

And because I'd almost lost him, I let myself indulge in this secret desire.

"Please, Draco," I whisper longingly. "Let me help make it better." I don't know if I'm talking about my plan, or asking permission to continue my exploration of him in an effort to make him forget his pain.

I bend closer to him, trailing my fingers back up the length of the unhurt part of his torso. My fingertips again find the frantic pulse at his neck. I hear his audible gulp. I find the courage to touch my forehead to his. Our noses nearly touch, too. His eyes shut and I watch the range of emotions parade across his face without the benefit of gazing into the depths of his eyes. The spicy masculine scent of him mixes with the sharp smells of the tinctures in his salve.

"Hermione," he rasps, "You need to stay away from me. For Merlin's sake, you are the smart one! You should hate me after all that I have done to you. I am not much different from the bully you know me as. It is best you understand that now. Before... before..."

"That might be true, Draco," I say cutting off his denial of what could be between us. I purposely hold myself close to him, not wishing to draw away. "Perhaps it's just my understanding of you that's changed, Draco. You may see yourself as the way you always were, but I've become acquainted with a side of you I hadn't been given the opportunity to see before. In my eyes, you've gone from cruel, contemptuous and offensive to chivalrous, reserved, even respectable."

"You are fooling yourself, Granger," he says gruffly, continuing to shut his eyes against my searching gaze. "I am none of those things. You would do well to stop searching for your fairy tale hero in the likes of me."

"You're a reluctant hero, then," I suggest confidently, offering up my compliment with an encouraging smile he refuses to open his eyes to see. "Let me treasure the good in you, Draco." I run my hand through his hair. My other rests beneath his strong jaw, my thumb caressing the nook where neck meets shoulder.

"Hermione, you're not playing fair," he groans, his hand coming to clutch at the robe at my waist. He opens his eyes, his gaze pleading.

For the first time, I understand the power that Lavender, Ginny and Pavarti whisper about, words I'd been too inexperienced to fully comprehend.

No longer. Not with him looking at me this way.

"You should not bother with me, Bookworm. I am a lost cause. I will fail in what Dumbledore asks. I refuse to do what Riddle wants. So, I will fail my family, too," he realizes forlornly.

"Granger," he sighs, "I am bound to fail you... You need to stop now," he says more firmly, attempting to push me away, but without much physical strength to support his verbal protest. "You cannot ask this of me, not in this way. You are not playing fair, Hermione."

I smile because I'm not intending to be the least bit fair, especially with this new found power over him.

I understand now what the other girls with boyfriends talk about when they slide pitying glances at me. This purely feminine charm is more potent than any magic I can conjure with my wand. This is Malfoy and... me. The way he looks at me, why, it takes my very breath away.

"Draco, nothing's fair in lo–"

"Don't say it," his whisper is pained, his shallow breath quickens, and I feel his brow knit beneath mine as he brings his fingers up to hush the movement of my lips. I smile at his knowledge of the Muggle quote. "Do not bandy that word about as if it means nothing," he softly scolds.

I pause, wondering what he knows of this word. Is it possible he might have experienced first-hand the emotions that swirl around it with another? Like Pansy? I find the idea doesn't sit well. Perhaps he fears the responsibility of it so much that he can't bear to hear it when it is spoken about him? I puzzle at this, but I dislike seeing his obvious discomfort so I edit the well-worn phrase.

"In war, then, Ferret," I amend quietly, my breath puffs against his fingers still splayed on my lips. He removes he hand. "Nothing's fair in war, Draco. Say you'll agree to my plan."

"Merlin, Hermione," the neediness in his voice calls out to mine. "Don't do this."

I want to kiss him.

Terribly.

Desperately.

But, I know we aren't ready for such intimacy, so I trail my lips across his jawline to replace the fingers I used to touch the pulsepoint at his neck close to his ear. My hand drags through his hair again as I press my lips to his neck.

Safer here. No meeting of mouths. No real chance of falling headlong into something he wants no part of.

"Say you'll let me help you... Just let me help you... get out of this bad situation, Draco," I insist, punctuating my words with swift kisses to this sensitive underside of his jaw. I hear a low growl in his throat as I nip at his skin there. His fingers dig into my waist.

Who am I kidding? Deep down, I already know I've fallen half in-love with the spoiled prat. I respond to the feel of his hands on me with a needy sound of my own.

"Say you will, Draco. Please."

I feel his heartbeat pound as I wait greedily for his answer.

"Only if you'll stay, Hermione," he at last whispers into my hair. "Only if you'll stay with me."

This admission of wanting me near, these words seem to cost him dearly. I touch my fingertips to his lashes. I want him to open his eyes. I tell him so. I turn and I find myself caught in the snare of his heated stare.

"I won't ever leave you," I whisper this promise, wishing to wipe away his silent doubts.

He shuts his lids again.

Stubborn boy.

"Tell Weasley to visit me tomorrow night and we will figure it out," he says, the muscles in his jaw working. His face is buried in my hair and his hold at my waist has not loosened.

"But, what about me?" I ask, pouting that I'm to be left out of the discussion.

"What about you?" he asks. His eyes are open now and his hands move to grip the sides of my face, pushing back to keep me at arm's length. His words remind me of my own during the heated argument with Harry earlier.

Indeed. What about me? It occurs to me that this moment is no longer about me.

I silence my thoughts and strive to truly listen to him.

"You, witch, will put my buttons back in order," he says, voice shaking slightly, though his command is given with a touch of that haughty Malfoy air. "You will stop driving me insane with your wily ways. You will pull that cloak over yourself and you will lay down beside me. Then, you had better get some blasted sleep, and let me get some much needed rest as well!"

I smile as he desperately tries to put some emotional space between us again by letting go of the physical closeness we'd just achieved. I allow him this retreat by following every one of his demands, gratified he'd asked me to stay beside him tonight. I take my sweet time with the buttons, brushing off his complaints of my leisurely pace by insisting I am taking care not to hurt him further. I send him a saucy smile which he returns with a huff and an eye roll.

At long last, I tuck him in and he smirks his thanks.

"I knew you would come around to discovering your undeniable attraction to me, Granger," he growls, his teasing an effort to cover up the more tender feelings I'd watched build in him as I put him back to rights. "Who knew you would take advantage of an invalid, Bookworm. So sordid of you."

I scoff at his jokes. "Malfoy. There's a thin line between lo–" He shoots me a warning look interrupting me mid-sentence. I smile knowingly and choose a word I believe he'll have little trouble with. "... A thin line between lust and hate, Malfoy. I believe I prefer entertaining the former rather than the latter. After all, in your current immobile state I am able to maintain the upper hand."

I send him a bold smirk of my own. He chuckles loudly and I relish the precious rare sound coming from him. I notice, however, his pained wince at the effort of producing such merriment. I quit my teasing and feel him relax beneath his sheets.

As per his request, I pull the cloak over me and I rest my head beside his. Through the cloak I kiss the tip of his nose and I catch the wisp of his contented sigh and the spicy scent of him. His arm closest to me wraps around my waist and, fascinated, I watch his eyelids flutter closed.

Heeding Ron's warning about discretion, I know I must not fall into sleep. My only wish is to help him ease into his. As soon as I feel his arm grow heavy around me and hear his deep even breathing against my ear, I carefully move out of his embrace and make my way back to the Gryffindor common room.

POV: Malfoy
The Following Eve...

He has been here all of fifteen minutes. Under the cover of dark, a clever Disillusionment Charm, and a hastily thrown Muffliato, the Weasel is fuming, looking ready to finish the job Potter began yesterday.

"How could you promise you'd allow her to do this, Malfoy?" his shout rings in my ears. "I'd hoped you'd do better than that! Do you wish her dead?"

"She is convincing, Weasel," I retort hotly. "But, she won't die! Not if we do this right. Before she can even think to step one foot toward the Manor, you and I, we can convince her that she's nutters to think she will survive the confrontation with Riddle."

He shakes his head.

"You don't know Hermione, Malfoy. She's a stubborn one."

"You mean to tell me that your belligerence plus mine amounts to anything less?"

His eyebrow rises. "Clearly, if they did, you and I wouldn't be having this conversation," he scoffs. "It'll take more than our combined bullying to make Hermione even begin reconsidering whatever it is she's already convinced herself of about her role in this."

"It will work, Weasel," I insist annoyed at his pessimism. "We just haven't truly combined forces yet. Look, I won't be going to the Manor this holiday seeing as I am recuperating."

I cast a look down my body, realizing suddenly that I should be thanking Potter for the reprieve he has bestowed upon me by postponing my receipt of the Dark Mark. Suddenly I feel the urge to smile widely and am amused to see Weasley's eyes round at my expression.

"She will not be going to your Burrow," I continue, "this means she and I will be here together. Once I am out of this bed, I can start her training and through that I will be able to convince her that she is rubbish at withstanding the rigors of what she is asking me to put her through."

I watch him stiffen and eye me suspiciously.

"You think we can trick the brightest witch at Hogwarts, perhaps the smartest witch in wizarding England?" he asks, astonished by my nerve.

I nod, a sly smile on my face. With my eyes I dare him to suggest we cannot succeed.

He shifts and nods a bit as though trying to convince himself this is a logical plan that I have come up with.

"What do you plan to do during this training with Hermione, Malfoy?" His voice is tinged with resentful curiosity.

"Nothing that will actually hurt her, Weasel," I reply. "I wouldn't do anything to hurt her. I will simply start her with Legilimency and Occlumency."

"How can I trust you, Ferret? You haven't exactly shown restraint in hurting her before."

I glare at him, but soon realize he's right. In all my public confrontations with her I'd been nothing but cruel.

"I swear on all that I own and all that I am that Hermione will come to no harm during this training," I say earnestly, attempting to wordlessly convey the depth of my regard for his best friend.

After a moment's consideration, he nods his agreement.

"And, what about your training," Weasel asks me pointedly.

"I require no training," I respond, confused.

"If we convince her she can't do this, you get to be a double agent," he replies slowly, as if trying to explain something to a small child.

Ah, yes, I'd nearly managed to forget about that.

"You'll have to know all manners of powerful good magic," he continues to explain, "just like Harry and the rest of us tried to prepare ourselves with last term."

I look at him with some derision.

"Look, Malfoy, I didn't decide to involve myself in the drama of your life to watch you pitch yourself to your death. You're the consummate coward, Ferret. You and I know it. But with the proper weapons in your apparently vast arsenal, you have to have a few tricks up your sleeve."

I thin my lips. I know where this is going.

"I will not need your magic," I say confidently.

"What do you mean? Are you going to back out of your agreement with Snape and Dumbledore?" His voice is reaching a roar again. "Are you too afraid to do what it takes to do this properly?"

"Don't think I won't take the damn mark," I find myself reaching for his decibel levels. It feels good to hide my fear with offended anger. "I'll bear it without so much as a whimper so long as I can keep Hermione out of this. I've already promised you, she won't come to harm, and I will play the convincing loyal Death Eater, just as I agreed."

"Blimey, Malfoy," he breathes, quite astonished by my fervent display. "You're quite serious about this."

"Of course!" I nearly shout with exasperation. "Why else do you think you are here?!"

"But... Malfoy, what if you fail at the playacting?" Weasley asks the question I refuse to ponder. Though he might never own up to it, his concern for me is evident. "Won't you suffer the same fate as your father?"

I rub at my temples, running my fingers through my hair to calm the terror that grips me when he asks the question.

"Look, I have been taught to cast off all of the Unforgivables save one," I explain, surprised my voice isn't quivering. In fact, I'm surprised to find some strength in my tone. "They can send dementors at me, or torture me with spells that feel the same as a dementor's kiss, Weasley, but they won't be effective."

"How is that? The rumors aren't true, then? You do know how to cast a Patronus?" he asks, impressed.

I shake my head. "No, Weasel. I have no need. There is no happiness in my life that such a creature can suck out of me. My family has made sure of that. I may eventually go mad, but I will not feel the soul sucking power of such things."

The redhead beside me smiles wryly before he shakes his head at my pitiful, though heartfelt, response.

"That's not true, Malfoy."

I look at him with growing animosity.

What did he know of my life? Or my capacity for happiness?

"You've spent time with Hermione, haven't you, Ferret?"

"You know I have," I shrug noncommittally, my anger dissipating with the thought of her.

"Then you've enough happiness that the dementors can hurt you," he says matter-of-factly. "You'll learn to cast a Patronus just as you'll teach me, and eventually her, how to cast off as many of the Unforgivables as you know how."

I gaze at him thoughtfully as I secretly gather together all of my happy memories, what little of them there are that are not tainted with some sort of darkness. I am surprised to discover Weasley is right. But, there is one happy memory of which Granger is not a part. I keep that one locked up in my heart hoping it will be the key to discovering my Patronus.

He turns to go, but before he puts his wand to his head, he asks, "Out of curiosity, Malfoy, what did she say to make you agree to her terms?"

I fight back a blush as the thoughts of last night wash over me. I clamour for a calm, even, reasonable tone. "I agreed to her demands in a moment of... weakness," I offer lamely.

He catches on quickly, another rise of an eyebrow and a quirk at his lips, "So, you agreed while your wits had flown... south for a holiday?"

"Something like that," I smirk, then find myself frowning at his knowing chuckle.

Has this happened to him, too? With her?!

"And you?" I ask accusingly. "Why did you so readily agree to come meet me tonight?"

"Oh, rest assured, it was nothing like what you experienced with Hermione, Malfoy. I agreed because I'd rather avoid one of her more uncomfortable hexes. But, believe me, I've known of those moments of... ah... weakness. With others, mind, so... I can sympathize."

With a bemused shake of his head he taps his own forehead, disappearing in a shimmer right before my eyes. A swing of the door and I know he is gone.

I hear the door click shut and think of the task ahead — convincing Granger of her incompetence in her abilities at dark magic.

I fall back into my pillows groaning at the impossibility of such a chore.

Blast that stubborn, too-smart-for-her-own-good, bloody attractive witch!