CHAPTER 2: Rejected

Hermione hadn't had any other encounters with Draco ever since, but she knew that was due to her excellent avoidance tactics. She refused to leave the common room except for meals and classes. Ron and Harry were suspicious, but they let Hermione be when she told them she was studying for a very important Arithmancy test and didn't want to be bothered.

Hermione knew that she couldn't avoid Draco forever. She didn't really know why she was trying so hard. It may have had something to do with the way he looked at her in class, when he thought she wasn't watching. It may have been the way his gaze made her feel.

Regardless, she was in the Library when he found her.

Braving the Library in favour of retrieving a much-needed book for a Potions essay, Hermione had only moments earlier pushed Ron and Harry out, and she suddenly wished she had them back. Draco slid into the chair opposite her, his keen grey eyes appraising her; they roamed over her hair, her face, her hands. Hermione felt as though his eyes were seeing far more than what was on the surface, and she felt strangely vulnerable. Draco wouldn't stop staring at her.

"Hi," she greeted awkwardly, fingering her quill. Each time she was brave enough to look at Draco, he was staring intently at her, and she moved her gaze away quickly; this happened three times before Hermione's blush became too pronounced to ignore. "What do you want?" she snapped.
"You've been avoiding me, Hermione," Draco said, breaking eye contact with her at last, and she suddenly felt like she was able to breathe again.
"Yes," she replied, although it wasn't a question. She saw no need to lie to him about her actions; it was clear as day that she had been doing so.
"Why?"
"You know why."

Hermione didn't know if Draco knew at all. It was her own educated guess - that Draco felt something too - that made her say that. It was her own recollection of the kitchens, and her hours spent wondering if Draco had felt it too, that made her say that.

Draco looked slightly hurt. "Merlin, Hermione, I know I scare you, but -"
"You don't scare me," Hermione interrupted, confused. "That's not what I meant at all."
"You don't have to be brave," Draco said snidely. "I saw the way you looked at me in the alcove."
"Oh come on, as if I wasn't going to feel a little bit uneasy," Hermione snapped. "You and I, alone, in the dark? What else was I supposed to feel?"
"Well if that's not what you meant, then by all means feel free to clear it up at any time!"
"I just meant that I was avoiding you because of what we feel!"

Hermione's cheeks flushed, but somebody had to admit it. Embarrassment flooded through her veins. She wasn't about to take what she said back, regardless of how much worse she felt now that it was in the air. Hermione did contemplate obliviating Draco so that she could make a clean getaway, and not have to deal with how his eyes were locked with hers, how there wasn't a single emotion on his face, but decided against it. Hermione supposed that no emotion was better than gloating or a smirk, but Merlin it'd been forever since she spoke and the silence was hanging heavily on her ears.

"Who says we feel anything?" Draco finally said, slouching back into the chair. He crossed his arms over his chest.
"Oh don't play daft with me, Malfoy, I know what you meant when you accused me of slipping you a love potion, regardless of how you tried to hide it."

A tinge of pink appeared on Draco's cheeks, but much like Hermione ignored her blush, Draco pushed through it. "Well it's nice to know that when everything changes, you still have your annoying know-it-all tendencies."

Hermione was outraged. This, she reminded herself, was why her feelings for Draco were ridiculous, whatever they were. Whether it was curiosity, or something close to obsession, or even just a crush - this was why she hated him. This was why they would never work. "What are you even still doing here?" she cried, slamming her book closed. It moaned pitifully, but she ignored it.
"I don't know why I came over in the first place!"
"Then leave!"

Hermione and Draco were stuck in a staring contest, with Hermione fuming, Draco glaring, and neither one willing to make the first move. It felt like the moment spanned forever, Hermione's heavy breathing the only indicator that time was indeed passing, whether they cared or not.

Draco cleared his throat and looked away, and Hermione felt a vicious satisfaction at her success. "I guess I just wanted to let you know that your optimism paid off, and I no longer feel anything," Draco said quietly. Hermione's heart sunk.
"Good."
"Great."

Oh how it hurt, being proven right.

Draco POV

Draco left Hermione to her own devices after looking at her once more, seeing the fury on her face that was so intense he was almost honoured that it was directed at him. But as he stalked out of the Library, he was growling at himself.

It was ridiculous for him to feel anything other than hatred for the Gryffindor. Distaste wasn't good enough. Anger wasn't good enough. No, it had to be hatred. So why was he feeling anything softer for her? He was such a liar, saying that he felt nothing. He didn't know what he felt, but he knew it was something. Why else would he have ventured down to the kitchens every night after their first, just to see if Hermione would show? Why else would his stomach burst into butterflies when she finally did appear, why else would he resent himself for letting his mouth get the best of him?

Draco pushed his way through a throng of students heading to the Great Hall for dinner. He envied their innocence, their lack of problems. They had no idea what was coming for them in their adolescence.

Of course, nobody would have his amount of baggage. Nobody's problems even remotely compared to his. Which only reminded him of yet another problem; of any girl in the entire world, his thoughts had to focus on the one girl whom he wasn't allowed to think about, wasn't allowed to consider, and definitely wasn't allowed to fancy. Voldemort was definitely going to kill him, for one reason or another. Draco was a dead man.

If Draco told Hermione all of this, he knew she would understand. But he couldn't tell her, couldn't explain his predicament, not to anyone. Not even to Blaise. Hermione would try to help, and that simply would not do; this was his burden to bear.

He'd been caught unawares when Hermione had intruded on his privacy in the kitchens. Draco was too shocked to remember that he was supposed to be cruel, unforgiving, all that. But he was tired, and he was failing his mission, and dammit, he wanted to finish his cup of coffee. He'd tried to redeem himself on his way out, but he didn't really have his heart in it. What was the point of calling her a mudblood anymore? Draco knew it didn't hurt her as much as it used to. What was the point of these petty games, these insults, when he had such bigger issues?

Somehow, the presence of the Gryffindor had calmed him. She'd posed as a perfect distraction, and once he'd left her behind in the kitchen, he couldn't be rid of her. His thoughts never strayed from her.

It's funny how a moment of weakness can change everything.