POV: Draco

I stare incredulously at the red-haired git as he shuts the door with a resounding thud. The sound of his gleeful chuckle echoes in my head as I internally curse myself for having gotten completely tanked with the Weasel over a forbidden bottle of Ogden's Old nearly three weeks ago.

I knew it had been a bad idea to confide in him about my confusion surrounding Hermione. And, this, his calculated abandonment of me with her, only confirms that it had been incredibly dim-witted of me to have trusted him.

While the idea of kissing Granger is something I have entertained far too many times to count, it is not something I feel quite ready to indulge in yet. Though it has been nearly a month, I still have not fully forgiven her for secretly involving Snape in our training sessions. I grant that she had been beside herself in fury after I adamantly refused to Crucio her, but it did not excuse her supreme idiocy in taking it upon herself to bring another person into her confidence about going off to face Voldemort.

I had been mentally preparing myself for another gruesome lesson with Granger on the day I walked into the Room of Requirement to find my godfather pointing his wand at Hermione. Helplessly I watched him hurl a snarled "Crucio!" at her. Her body pulled taut and toppled over to lie useless on the cold tiles. Her eyes, big and round, seemed to plead with me to intervene. Her mouth was open in a silent scream.

I dashed toward her, but mid-stride my legs suddenly refused to move. Snape had sent a wandless hex to halt my advance. He then hissed an icy warning that sent a chill down my spine.

"Show nothing of yourself," his cold sneer was too similar to my father's. I shuddered, recalling similar words spoken to me long ago. Snape's inky black stare bored into mine as my heart wrenched for Hermione, now curled into herself, the tendons in her neck strained, her fingers stretched, then fisted, reminding me of the tortured spider that surely must have died a thousand deaths under the Cruciatus during Professor Moody's Defense Against the Dark Arts class.

"No Mercy, Draco," Snape hissed, continuing to usher a litany of teaching commands at me while sending more torturous wandlight into Hermione. "Stand and watch her suffer as if you are doing nothing more distasteful than drinking unacceptably bland tea. Show only haughty disdain. You must be impervious to the sight of such things if we are to be successful in convincing the Dark Lord of your undying servitude."

Hermione's voice miraculously found its way back into her throat and a soul-shattering scream filled the room, piercing into me. I could almost thank my father for the long-ago Avada Kedavra that spared the only other living thing I had ever freely loved from this sort of torturous hell Granger seemed to be enduring.

Beside me, Snape tut-tutted, taunted and tested her, while I worked to suppress the desire to pull my own wand against him, "By all means, Miss Granger, make it ever easier for those sadistic psychopaths to take pleasure in your pain. YOU WILL NOT SHOW ANY WEAKNESS! THIS IS WHAT YOU WANTED FROM ME, ISN'T IT?!"

Ever the proficient student, Hermione managed to clamp her lips shut, though the alarming shudders passing through her small frame made me want to launch my own Unforgiveable at Snape to make him stop it.

"Is the potion working, Granger?" Snape continued, almost seductively. "Think of it! Feel the draught running through your veins touching each of your nerve endings. It's nearly as simple as mind over matter. Your inherent smarts should inform you of this. With some of my newly brewed elixir, you should surely be spared some of the pain. Just think of witches thrown into fire. Only a tickling sensation! Remember!"

I threw a quizzical glance Snape's way. He answered with a knitting of his bushy black brows and an almighty scowl. Another one of her ear-splitting screams nearly stopped my heart. Whatever the Potions Master had given her seemed to have reached its limit of pain relief. Her renewed cries punctured through my best efforts at blocking the unwanted and overwhelming rage at my impotence to save her.

As the muscles in my legs and back gathered to try to wrench myself toward her again, a shock of blinding light suddenly shot from her now outstretched fingers. Snape and I were both dumbstruck as Hermione let out a keening cry before appearing to gather some unseen internal power to push the strength of Snape's Crucio back out toward him. Snape's magic momentarily wavered as the force of her magic caused him to stagger back.

"ENOUGH!" I roared, finding myself again able to move with Snape's falter. I launched myself between him and her, taking on a wayward shot of the curse from Snape's wand. The sheer power of it knocked me to my knees beside her.

Bugger it all to bloody hell! How had she been able to withstand more than a moment of this excruciating, mind-numbing pain?

"Draco!" they both cried. Wands clattered to the floor and heavy footsteps rushed toward me.

Gasping while gingerly peeling myself from the floor, I ignored and slapped away their offers of help. Once my feet were under me, I spared a hateful glare at each of them and did my very best to storm out of the room.

That was the night, in the company of Weasley, I had unsuccessfully attempted to use the heat of firewhisky to burn from my mind the horrifying images of Snape torturing her under the Cruciatus. I'd snuck out to fetch the bottle, wallowing in feelings of betrayal at her inclusion of my godfather in her quest. After a few hours, as all-too familiar anger enveloped me, I'd made to find Weasley. This oddly comforting fury has been my indulgence, my mask of choice, when faced with the reality of my growing concern for Granger.

Now, mindful of her presence in the room, I try to recall what I might have said to the redhead to have him torturing me in such a merciless manner. Thinking of such only brings back the squirming, retching sensation that accompanies the knowledge that I might have perhaps shed a few tears in the git's presence over having been made to witness Snape cursing Hermione. So, now two people know of my weakness for the girl sitting silently in the room with me. And, now... now Weasely's simply gone too far.

I gulp and swing my gaze to meet her wide-eyed, open-mouthed stare. She seems just as shocked as I am to be here... alone... with no other purpose than to contemplate and participate in an actual kiss.

"We do not have to do what he says," I say assuredly, stealing a glance at her from beneath lowered lids. "It is just Weasley."

She smiles faintly, lets out a breath, and nods. Then, to my great curiosity, she catches up her bottom lip between her teeth before looking away.

"It isn't as though one kiss from me will rock your world enough to conjure something as important as your Patronus," she replies snidely, a tone completely opposite of what the lip bite might have meant. She shrugs nonchalantly, looks at me quickly to gauge my response, then hastily shifts her gaze to focus on... well... nothing.

"Do you want to kiss me, Granger?" I ask with a some incredulity.

"What?! No!" she squeaks. There is an awkward pause filled with what I imagine is disappointment. At last she sighs and adds, "especially if you don't want to kiss me, Malfoy."

I have not exactly been kind to her these past weeks, and considering my downright deplorable behavior, I am frankly surprised she wants me anywhere in her immediate vicinity. Yet, my watchful observations of her this term has me somehow able to see beyond her efforts to appear unmoved by the task Weasley sets before us. It shames me to discover her wearing the same look I witnessed in her memories, the woebegone expression she wore while alone in her room wondering why I hated her enough to wish her dead.

I want to reach out to her now because this time, I can. Because this time, I can hold her so she knows she is not alone. In doing so, I might even be able to make her understand that I do not hate her but, in fact, feel quite the opposite. My limbs, however, have gone immobile. So, instead, I use words to tentatively reach out to her.

"Who says I do not want to kiss you, Granger?"

With some satisfaction I watch her head snap up, her astonished gaze meeting mine. Impulsively, I reach out a hand toward her. Still sitting, she shakes her head at me, refusing to stand and come closer. Her sudden shyness has me rediscovering the ability to move and I propel myself forward. She stares at me and seems to grow wary as I approach. She turns her head aside when I am within touching distance. She presents me with her lovely profile, chin up-tilted in her usual defiant expression. There are, however, tell-tale signs that she is jittery. Her nostrils flare and just beneath her jaw, the beating of the pulse point there visibly quickens. I stop when the tips of my leather shoes touch the side of the bench on which she has curled. Without thinking, I reach out again, this time placing a finger under her chin, lightly tipping her head so I can see her face. Her breath hitches and her eyes darken.

It is wrong of me to touch her. Very wrong, because something very odd happens to time. It slows as I move my fingers to tangle in her hair. My hand lingers there, seduced, even shocked, by the unexpected silky softness of it.

She laughs unexpectedly. It is a full, rich ripple of sound with a slightly nervous note that tips it away from being truly merry.

Then, time halts altogether. Absurdly spellbound, we stare at one another as her laughter fades. All else melts away, everything, that is, except the vision of her and her suddenly sober sable eyes. There is an undeniable intensity in this space, charged with the oppressive strain of having denied for weeks, months really, all that could be between us. It is as if the past and future collide, their resonances cancelling each other out until all that is left is this one unwavering bit of time.

The moment is simply... magical.

And unbearably tense.

"I will ask again, Granger. Do you want to kiss me?"

My question hangs in the air.

Our gaze holds. Neither one of us speaks. I lift my hand to graze my knuckles lightly against her cheek. She swallows, summoning up some of that legendary Gryffindor courage, I suppose. In this suspended space, she can say or do any number of things to cause time to tick back into motion.

I wait.

"I might, Malfoy," she replies so softly I have to dip my head closer so I can hear, "want to kiss you, that is."

And, with that, the movement of the clock's hands begins anew. I smile, enamored by her brave admission, forgetting all the reasons to keep away. I move to sit beside her. She shifts to make room.

"This is not the most romantic venue and the situation is hardly ideal," I say this evenly, watching her curiously, astounded that she hasn't yet stormed out of the room. "I am not much for romance. Though, I imagine perhaps you are. Know this about me, Granger, I am hardly what you Muggles call a Casanova." The tiniest of smiles touches her lips as I speak.

"But if you do... want to kiss me, that is," I continue, my nerves making my voice gruff, "you are wasting precious time. Four minutes and counting, Granger." I lift my wrist to her eye-level, deliberately tapping the expensive platinum watch on my wrist. Her eyes drop to alight on the glinting metal, an unexpected distraction and useful excuse for the astonished shortness of breath both she and I share. I drop my arm, look away, and take in a much needed lungful of air. I dare to dart a bewildered glance at her, startled to discover the banked desire in her eyes. I am amazed by her reaction to my words. She tilts toward me, reaching like a flower toward the sun. Slightly alarmed, I lift a my palm to press it gently against her shoulder, stopping her before she can come any closer.

With my other hand, I catch an errant curl that strays from the rest of the mop of waves on her head. I twine it around and around my finger, drinking in the look of expectation on her face. Like a madman, I decide to take this opportunity not to convince her of the rightness of a kiss, but to push at her so she might be the first to turn away.

"I cannot imagine why you want to kiss me. I am a prize-winning prat, remember?" I begin a volley by using her latest barb against me. It is my last attempt to bring her back to her senses.

She blinks.

"I am no good with emotions, Granger. I am a shallow bastard. I rarely, if ever, give recognition to those who value honor above duty. I am not some sort of white knight. And you–well, you are an altogether different sort, are you not? You seem to understand and feel deeply about things like courage and loyalty. You, with your vast talent and heart. If you were Slytherin, you would be extremely dangerous indeed."

I take notice of something that crosses her face. I cannot put a name to it other than characterize it as unease. Perhaps she agrees with my assessment of her?

"Thankfully you are lion, Granger," I continue, my sights trained on the parade of emotions marching across her face, "not serpent. And, these very Gryffindor traits are what make you absolute rubbish at what you think you will be able to accomplish through this prophecy." I smirk, then add softly, "You cannot trick Him. No amount of practice or training will suffice. You must admit that Weasley and I have won this wager against you, Bookworm. Besides, even if I have not truly proven your inability at defense, even if you are more than sufficiently able to face Voldemort, there is still absolutely no way I would willingly feed you to Him."

She closes her eyes as I brush a finger against her cheek.

"But if you go despite all my forewarnings, you better leave me now because if we share this kiss..." I hear my voice grow gravelly and pause so I can work to control it again. "If we share this kiss, He will know. He will know how you feel about me and He will use it against you. He will use it against the both of us. You are mad if you think that he won't, Granger."

I find myself gripping her shoulder with the hand I had used to try to push her away. My fingers dig so deeply it seems impossible they will not leave marks on her otherwise flawless skin.

"My name is Hermione." Her voice is powerful, confident, and irritating to the extreme. She ignores all I have to say. Her fingers capture my shirtfront threatening to shake me. "Why are you reverting to surnames? After everything that's happened, why are you warning me off as if I don't already know who and exactly what you are? Why do you so fiercely believe that I am going into this blind? I have had much more experience fighting dark curses than you think, Draco. Isn't this shite you're spouting really about you being scared, Malfoy? Not scared of Him, Draco, but scared of me?"

I watch the unmistakable gleam of a dare in her eyes. Her chin moves upward in that annoyingly stubborn tilt. My gaze drops to look at her hands clutching at me. I decide against giving air to the quick denial that flies to my lips.

"Yes, Hermione," I admit quietly, fighting the urge to squirm under her scrutiny. "I am scared. I have always been terrified of Him. But lately, I find myself completely panicked at what there might be between us. I know you feel the immense power of it, too."

The admission somehow fortifies me and I am eager now to welcome her attempts at backing up her bold words. I very nearly expect the movement of her hand against my jaw that gently coaxes my gaze to hers. When our eyes connect, she nods at me. "You and me together, we're like that little girl with the curl. Do you know the nursery rhyme, Draco?"

Two and a half minutes more and she wants to talk about Muggle verse? Leave it to the Bookworm to fill my head with words at a time like this.

"No," my response is curt, impatient, but when I attempt to pull away, her hands draw me nearer. I take hold of the hand placed on my face to tug her close. I rest my cheek against the side of hers, breathing in the sweet apricot scent of her.

"Merlin, you smell good... for a Gryffidor."

At my sardonic tone, she chuckles and relaxes against me. For weeks, perhaps even months, I have been fighting the urge to touch her, hold her. Every lesson and training session since seeing that internal force within her come to light brings me perilously closer to something akin to loving her.

It is a feeling I fight every moment when she is near and the battle only intensifies when I am alone. At each lesson I shout at her for some trumped up inadequacy. Every training session has me roaring at her to fight against the dark magic I throw at her: Imperius, Fiendfyre, Legilimency, Petrification, and, yes, she even bullied me into using Dolohov's old curse against her–all but the Avada. She has become surprisingly adept at defending herself from and taming the effects of all these. At every turn I discover she is infuriatingly successful at climbing her way out of the abyss of any sort of dark magic.

Out of sheer terror, for her life and mine, I make sure to regularly bellow at her for some imagined failing. Each shouted insult and curse is my silent plea for her to give up this foolish desire and wait for Potter to complete his task, but it is as though she is somehow biologically immune to the curses. I wonder if this has anything to do with Snape's new anti-pain potion. Whatever the reason, she seems to gain some sort of natural antibody that helps her fight off harmful effects, or perhaps each cast curse implants her with internal counter-curses. Even Snape continues to be thunderstruck at her unsurpassed talents at defense.

As I continue to fret about her safety, I feel one of her hands reach around my neck, pulling me closer, bringing my ear against her mouth.

"There was a little girl who had a little curl right in the middle of her forehead," she says, smiling against the whorls of my ear as she slides herself closer to me. I lean my face into hers as she recites the rhyme. "When she was good, she was very, very good, and when she was bad, she was horrid."

I sit still next to her, taking in the words of the Muggle children's verse and realize with a start that, yes, what she and I have between us is in fact embodied in this little ditty. I shudder, feeling her breath against me. In this moment I realize that what I crave more than me being able to touch her, is the heavenly feeling of her touching me. It is this that has me ignoring all good sense and seizing the impossibility of this moment.

My own hand moves to intertwine my fingers into the hair at the base of her neck. I fist the softness of these strands and pull gently so her face tilts up, my lips just inches from hers.

"We have already experienced a great deal of what can be horrid between us, Hermione," I whisper, still quite dazzled to find myself here. "Do you want to see if what we have can be very, very good together?"

She sends me a rather slow and seductive smile.

Two minutes left... blast that Weasley!

Her head falls back as I place my lips on her exposed neck. I brush light kisses against her skittering pulse, following it downward. I let out a ragged breath against the place where her neck meets shoulder. As I make my way back to her ear, the light stubble on my jaw scratches her, reddening sensitive skin. My hands mimic the journey of my mouth, gliding down her back and back up to gather the tips of her long curls in my fingers.

"I want to kiss you, Hermione," I whisper huskily, playfully nipping at her ear. Dumbfounded by the sound of my own needy confession, I repeat it again, simply awed by the truth of it, "I truly do want to kiss you." She rewards my honesty with a whimper. I slowly brush my nose and cheek alongside hers, pulling my head back to make eye contact with her.

Molten chocolate. Her gaze is wanting and passionate... a heady surprise. I watch her watching me. The tip of her tongue seductively wets her lips, like a cat relishing the sight of cream. Her teeth again catch up her ripe bottom lip and I move closer, mesmerized. Her breath stops. I softly touch my lips to hers and something–a feeling of absolute rightness–shoots through me at the feel of her mouth against mine.

I hear her gasp as the frisson of energy seems to streak through her, too. There is a slightly awkward moment that has our noses bumping, but we adjust swiftly. Her tongue persistently slides against the seam of my lips. I respond in kind and she opens her mouth to me, beckoning me inside. Instead of answering her invitation, I draw back to take in air then shift the angle of my head to capture her upper lip. She whines, making a small dismayed sound at my retreat. It sends my head spinning. My heart swells at the feeling of her pulling me against her.

Nothing has ever felt this good. Nothing has ever stolen my breath away like her.

She wants me.

She perhaps even loves me.

The knowledge is absolutely exhilarating, much bigger, much fuller, much better than the thrill of flying. I take a moment to look into her flushed face. The siren's smile she sends me reaches her eyes. I notice because this look of unmitigated joy has been absent on her face since our first shared laugh in the Room of Hidden Things.

"Draco," she whispers, her fingers tugging at my shirt, her face reaching for mine again, "more, please."

With my heart singing at the sound of her desperate plea, my fingers on her nape discover the clasp of the necklace I gave her resting there. My mouth meets hers again as I trace the chain to the bauble resting in the V of her collarbone. I touch the wizard-made, custom-designed flower, comforted to find it still there. She does not know it but this pendant is my magical connection to her, wrought and delivered at the suggestion of both Snape and Dumbledore.

"Promise me you'll never take this off," I implore hotly against her lips, pressing the bijou against her rapidly beating pulse.

"Never," she swears breathily, her lips moving against mine. "I'll never take it off.... Kiss me again, Draco."

I smile at her impatience and revel at the feel of her mouth crashing against mine, forceful and demanding. I hold her back some, wanting to take my time to savor her, alternating between short, light kisses and then delving in deep. She squirms in my arms, wanting it seems, to be closer than physically possible.

Besides Pansy, who was never this responsive, I have little more experience to offer her. I draw away from her slightly, nerves jangling, but trying valiantly not to show it.

"Stop teasing, Malfoy," she moans, pouting. Somehow she has managed to make her way onto my lap. Minx. I touch a finger to her lips, cursing the Weasel for the time constraint but thankful for it all the same.

"Weasley's due any second, love."

As if on cue, the redhead re-enters the room and I reluctantly, but swiftly, place Hermione beside me, grabbing hold of her hand to keep her from flying off the seat to flee to the opposite side of the room. She pulls against my hold, but when I squeeze her fingers, which are resting in my hand atop my thigh, she melts against my side. Now I have the camouflage I need.

"OK, then, Malfoy," Weasley announces jovially, pleased to have discovered us mid-liplock, "let's get on with it. Here's your wand."

"A moment if you will, Weasley," I say uncomfortably. I stare at him pointedly, silently trying to make him understand why I can't stand up right at this moment. The unspoken request is not lost on the redhead who smirks knowingly. With a nod, he walks over to Hermione and offers her a hand. All the while, I am counting silently, and when that doesn't work, I run the names of all the players on the Slytherin quidditch team in my head, using anything to distract myself from her and what we'd been doing on the bench. She casts me a worried glance and I send her a wan smile.

"Go back to the tower and rest, Hermione," Weasley suggests pulling her up and away as I look on. "Maybe you can work on the stuff you want to show Voldemort in your head. You know, about you being the female heir to Slytherin and all? Shouldn't you be doing that already?"

I watch something unspoken pass between them.

Relief?

Thanks?

She casts a stray glance at me, waiting for my response to Weasley's suggestion. I raise an eyebrow, but offer nothing. I had wondered when to suggest the very same, but it was too much like surrender to allow the words to spill from my own mouth. She does have to start developing her cover story since Weasley's and my attempts at thwarting her is not going as expected. Yet, even though I know she should start preparing, I am still mightily annoyed that the Weasel makes even this slight capitulation to her disastrous plan.

"Go rest, Hermione. Do what Ron says," I encourage, suddenly catching on that Weasely wants her to leave. "Let's train again tomorrow. Oh, and I have something else to show you."

Both hers and his eyebrows shoot up. I laugh. The booming sound echoes in the room.

"Nothing like that, you perverts! I am talking about the training. I have a puzzle that I am finding difficult to decipher. I think Hermione might be able to help me."

She sends me a curious look and I stare blankly at her.

"Alright, Draco," she says reluctantly. "I'll see you tomorrow. Good night, Ron." With a small wave to both of us she is gone. I turn to stare into bright blue eyes. The glaring red of his hair is always a shock.

"So, Weasley," I drawl, leaning back, much more comfortable now that she has left the room. "Why did you send her away? Have you another plan, Big Red?"