Chapter 7

Hermione lay awake, contemplating performing a memory charm on Draco before he woke up. She hated herself for what she had done, and how she felt while doing it. An inescapable flame had swelled within her chest that had yet to be extinguished. Hermione thought of Harry and Ron, and what they would think of her. She was in the midst of reciting her "it never happened, you were drunk and I was lonely" speech when Draco rolled over, gripping her waist and curling deeper into her side. Her fingers, which were idly toying with his hair, now rested on his forehead, pressed against her ribcage. She stayed still, hoping he wouldn't sober up. Instead, his eyelids fluttering, he whispered, "Hermione."

Her stomach flipped, sending little shivers down to her toes. She resumed stroking his silky hair when he whispered again, "don't leave." She stilled at the sound of his voice that sounded completely sober. He must have sensed her shock, because he gripped her even tighter and murmured, "don't. leave."

"Okay, Draco," she whispered. "I won't. I won't leave."

Morning came and with it, the realization that Hermione was not in her own bed. She had planned to leave after Draco had fallen back asleep, but had woken up wrapped around him, his arms encircling her head, her lips pressed against his bare chest. One of his legs were between her own, their hips connected like puzzle pieces. He was breathing deeply, his hair a disheveled mess. His face was serene, the most relaxed she'd ever seen him. She decided it would only make a disastrous situation worse if she were here when he eventually woke. Untangling herself gently, so as not to wake him, Hermione padded her way back to her room to get ready for the day. She left the door open behind her.

Hermione raked her hair into a ponytail, letting her curls cascade down her back, the way Ron used to like them. She felt the need for forgiveness for what had taken place last night, if even subliminally. She passed a mirror on her way out the door, and noticed a glow on her face that hadn't been there for months. It was the best sleep she had had in a long time.

Draco awoke to a cold, empty bed. The weather outside seemed to agree with his feelings, a cold, rainy day with a violent thunderstorm on the way. He felt a pathetic sadness in waking up alone, and recalled the many occasions when he had been on the opposite end of the situation. He groaned and rolled over, when a familiar scent attacked his senses. His pillows smelled of her, lavender and honey, sweet and tantalizing. It seemed to tease him, making him beg for one more taste and fading each time he got it. Finally he managed to pull himself out of bed, finding his forgotten uniform tossed onto the floor. Memories of the night before hit him like a train, forcing him to sit down. Holding his head for dear life, he saw images burned into his memory of Hermione moaning his name, her hands running through his hair, the softness of the skin over her hipbones making him want to rip himself apart in anguish. He wanted more, yet was disgusted by it. He loved the feel of her, yet hated the way he felt afterwards. She was worse than firewhiskey. At least those hangovers didn't give you a raging boner, he thought. After a not so quick shower, Draco realized not only had he slept through breakfast, but was now late for class.

He arrived to Charms five minutes late, slipping into a seat near the back, undetected by Professor Flitwick. Flitwick was reciting the schedule for the day, now that the Quidditch match was rescheduled for the next day, the dance that same night. It was Friday morning, with half classes. This news cheered Malfoy up a bit, till he realized in his haste, he had slipped into the empty seat right next to Weasley. "Morning Weasel," Draco said, a smirk on his face.

"Morning ferret. How'd you sleep last night? One eye open?"

This would be too easy, thought Draco.

"Well, honestly Weasley, I didn't get much sleep at all."

Ron chuckled, now completely ignoring the Professor's attempts at holding their attention. "Now why was that, Malfoy?"

"Well, Weasel," he began, so smug his jaw twitched. "Hermione kept me awake all night."

But Ron wasn't giving in that easy. "What'd she do? Hex you? Quite good at them you know, and you most probably deserved it."

"Well no, not quite. You see she was interested in doing some, recreational activities. Ya know Ronald, I told her I was tired, but, she was having none of it."

Ron's fists were shaking, though he tried to calm himself down. Draco followed his gaze across the room, to where Hermione was sitting, oblivious to their current bickering. She looked radiant, despite the rain. Draco noticed her hair, flowing down her back, and decided he fancied it more flowing free.

"Hermione would never dare touch someone as vile as yourself. She's got better taste."

"Well, she shagged you didn't she?"

Ron turned scarlet, clashing with his hair furiously. "Oh, there it is Weasel. That's what I was looking for. Ya know, Hermione is quite strange. You probably know this but, if you kiss her neck right under her jaw, she just makes the sexiest noises-"

This had been the breaking point, this exact fact that Ron thought he alone would know. Ron had jumped up, swinging wildly at Draco, his fist connecting with his jaw. Draco ducked and swung back, giving Ron a black eye. The class had erupted, some students scrambling, others cheering. Professor Flitwick tried desperately to separate them, but the boys remained in an all-out brawl. Draco's split lip and Ron's purple neck only seemed to spur them on even more, until finally;

"DRACO!"

The boys stopped, pushing each other away. Ron wiped at his bleeding nose while Draco gripped his bruised jaw. It took him a moment to realize the importance of what had just transpired.

Hermione's was the only voice that stopped them both dead. Hermione was the one who could make them both do anything to please her. But more importantly, Draco's was the name she chose to call. Everyone in the room knew it, including Ron. In this fight, she had chosen Draco. Hermione stood on the other side of the room, fists clenched and thunder booming over them, like a furious angel. She seemed shocked and nervous, not understanding what had been brewing between the two boys till it was too late.

"Lads, I would suggest you collect your things and leave my classroom immediately," squeaked Professor Flitwick. The majority of students didn't move. Ron grabbed his books and stormed out of the room. Hermione looked like she wished she were anywhere in the world but here at the moment. Draco stood still, surveying the room, before taking a deep bow to the delight of his fellow Slytherins. He too, grabbed his books and practically marched out. Draco vaguely heard Professor Flitwick shouting, already half way down the hall. Weasel was nowhere to be seen.

"Wait! Draco, wait! Stop, stop walking. What the fuck was that!?"

Draco turned around to see a very angry Hermione barreling towards him. He waited until she was directly in front of him, practically an inch apart before saying,

"Why me?"

She blinked. "Wha- What?"

"Why did you call my name and not his?"

Standing in front of him, he felt her anxiety rolling off her like waves. Her inner turmoil was written so clearly on her face, he wanted to reach out and calm the seas raging inside her. Yet he knew, he was the cause of it. "I don't know," she whispered.

"Then I don't know either."

"Draco, Draco c'mon, Draco where are you going?"

He whirled on her. "You left this morning."

"Draco, you were drunk and-"

"No," he said forcefully. "Don't pin this on me."

"Pin, pin this on you!?" she exclaimed. "Draco you literally broke my bookshelf, which will take forever to fix by the way, and forced me to carry you back to your bed."

"Yea, alright, did I force you to do anything afterwards, Granger? Hm?" For once, Hermione had nothing to say. "And you left, this morning. When I asked you last night you said you wouldn't."

"Draco," she paused. "How could I have stayed?"

"You called my name, Hermione. Not his."

And with that, he left her alone in the empty hallway, clutching to her books for support. She watched his retreating figure as it hit a moving staircase and left her vision.

Fuck you, fuck this, fuck you, don't look at me, fuck you, fuck her, fuck this.

Draco's internal monologue was a stream of profanities directed at the students unlucky enough to pass him in the halls. So enraged was he at his conflicted feelings, he decided it was a terrible mistake to get out of bed at all today, and it would be much better for everyone around him if he knicked some tea and biscuits from the house elves and returned to the scene of the crime. Hopefully some of her scent would linger long enough for him to regret missing it.

Compared to the events of the morning, the rest of Hermione's day passed rather uneventfully, though she felt sick the whole afternoon. At lunch, Ron, Harry, nor Draco were to be seen, to the delight of the school gossips and third years alike. Hermione picked at her sausage nervously, pretending to take Luna's nargle inspection seriously. So distracted was she over Draco that Hermione burnt her hand in Potions that afternoon, failing the lesson. Now, exhausted and frustrated, she decided to skip dinner altogether and go straight to the library. She spent a few hours there, till her cold and worn body slumped in the seat and her eyes would barely focus. She stumbled back to her room around one o'clock in the morning. Upon closing the door, she caught sight of her newly re-built bookshelf. There was a note.

Hermione,

I'm sorry.

No name, context, or even hint, yet Hermione knew what it meant immediately. Now suddenly wide awake, she kicked off her shoes and ripped away her uniform. She stripped down to her knickers, putting on a large Irish Quidditch Team T-shirt she'd gotten with Harry and Ron back in fourth year. Seeing it filled her with more anxiety, but she quickly pushed those feelings aside as she pushed open Draco's door.

Barefooted, she picked her way over to his bedroom door. Before she could question her sanity, she nudged the door open to see his naked back, illuminated by the moon, giving him a silver glow. She came to the bed, lifting the covers and crawling inside. She had assumed he was asleep until he rolled over and lifted his arm, inviting her to share in his silvery warmth. She happily obliged, earning her a happy moan escaping Draco's lips.

In his deepest, sleep-coated voice, he murmured, "What does this mean?"

She wrapped around him tighter and whispered, "I don't know."

Instead of getting angry or belligerent, he gently kissed her forehead and pulled the covers up over them. "And I thought you were supposed to be the brightest witch of our age."

She laughed quietly, the sound of which made his chest feel as if it were about to explode. He hated himself.

"Don't push it."

And with that, they fell asleep, blissfully unaware of how complicated things were about to be.