Hello, everyone! 😊 How are you? Looking forward to continue the story? Yessssss! 🙋 Alright, here we go! Hahahaha 😂 this one is a bit shorter than the previous ones, but quite exciting, you'll see heh heh 😏 Thank you all so much for your support, really 😍 Thanks also, as always, to everyone who read the previous chapter, whether you left a comment or not. And thank you in advance for reading this new one! 😘
Let's get on with the story. We had left Draco 'rather' angry, going in search of Hermione...
CHAPTER 23
The painting of the peasant girl
"I will kill her. It is decided. I'll kill that stupid selfish woman. It seems to be the only thing that will put an end to all this. She's determined to fuck up my life and she won't stop until she gets it, it's so clear by now... How could she be so reckless? She always has to mess everything up, and I always have to be in the middle of it. What was she trying to do by coming to the Hospital? Get me into new trouble when I seem to have escaped Crabbe and Goyle telling the whole school? If she wants to bring me down, she couldn't be doing any better..."
Draco rounded the corner of the corridor with a skid, causing his shiny shoes to squeak audibly. He stopped at the foot of a set of stairs that were moving at that instant, magically changing direction, to catch his breath. He was exhausted. And he was fooling around. It was mid-afternoon, and he had already searched the Library to the last corner. He had no idea what other places Granger frequented. But most likely she was not wandering the corridors. Just in case, he had checked the third and fourth floors, to no avail. Maybe she was in class, and he wouldn't be able to find her there. He had no idea what Granger's schedule was. This year, due to the diversity in the number of students and the fact that all the subjects were electives, they didn't always take the same subjects with the same classmates. Maybe, if he was lucky, she'd be in her Common Room or her room, studying like the nerd she was. He could try.
And where the hell was the Gryffindor Common Room?
He looked around, trying to get his bearings, as if he expected to see a sign with an arrow pointing him in the right direction. He felt frustration boiling inside him. It was hopeless. He couldn't go through the entire castle, saying random passwords to every wall he came across along the way. That was assuming the entrance was a wall; the Slytherin one was, but who knew what the Gryffindor one was like.
But he didn't care how long it took him to find her. He was going to talk to Granger, and he was going to do it right then. He wasn't going to wait. He couldn't wait, and he wasn't even sure why. But he was too upset, too angry. He had too many things to say to her. He needed to talk to her right away.
The answer to his problem materialised at the end of the corridor to his right, in the form of a tiny, dark-haired boy, dressed in a black and red robe, with the lions' crest embroidered on his lapel. He was able to make out from a distance the golden colour of the lion, and its silhouette. Draco gauged his options and ended up holding back a sigh. He had to take a chance. He no longer had Crabbe and Goyle on his side; he had to do the dirty work himself.
He straightened up as much as he could, trying to assume a threatening stance, and strode out to meet the lone boy with powerful strides.
"Hey, you!" he shouted, raising his voice as high as he could. The young first-year stopped and watched with an expression of open terror on his tiny face as the tall seventh-year student strode towards him. "I have a job for you, you little brat..."
"Come in," said Albus Dumbledore's calm voice from inside the office as Harry knocked three times on the door with his fist. After inhaling sharply to encourage himself, the boy opened the door and stepped into the large circular room.
The portraits that lined the walls were apparently placidly asleep. A faint sunlight was partially filtering in through the velvet curtains; the day had dawned frankly grey and cloudy, and had scarcely improved with the passing hours. Fawkes, his huge phoenix, was on its stand. It seemed to have risen relatively recently from the ashes, for he looked fantastic, with bright crimson plumage, golden tail, and bright, alert eyes.
The old Headmaster was seated behind his large desk, surrounded by documents and mountains of thick books. He was writing on a roll of parchment with the broadest quill Harry had ever seen, and beside him, on another roll of parchment, a Quick-Quotes Quill was tearing out elegant words without any effort on his part. Seeing Harry, Dumbledore smiled beneath his long, bushy beard and set the quill down in a nearby inkwell.
"Harry, my boy," he greeted, kindly, beckoning him closer. The Quick-Quotes Quill didn't stop. "Come in, come in..."
"I hope I'm not disturbing you, sir," apologised the young man, moving closer to the centre of the office. But the old man waved his hand for him to come closer and he ended up sitting in one of the two chairs in front of the desk. The boy was surprised to find that they were not very tall chairs, nor were they imposing. In fact, they were made of wood, quite simple, but he couldn't help remembering the first time he was in that office, and how big they seemed to him. How frightened he was at that moment, in the presence of that imposing and wise wizard.
"Not at all, Harry. I was writing a letter to the Ministry of Magic. Requesting, in short, some more protection for the castle," he revealed, smiling again at the boy's relieved expression at such news. "I was wondering when you'd be coming to see me..."
"Did you know I was coming, sir?"
"I know you well, my boy," he reminded him, affectionately, looking at him over his half-moon spectacles. "And I am also very aware of all that is going on outside these walls. I knew it would worry you, and that you would want my opinion on it."
"Sir, how are things really going?" the boy wanted to know, indeed. "Remus told me that —"
"I know what he told you, I spoke to him," he revealed, looking amused at Harry's surprised face. "I remind you that I am the founder of the Order of the Phoenix. I manage that organisation to the best of my ability, with the means at our disposal, and I am in contact with them at all times."
He pointed to the portrait of a falsely sleeping Phineas Nigellus Black. Harry then remembered that his second portrait was placed in a dormitory at number twelve, Grimmauld Place.
"Are you still using Grimmauld Place as headquarters?" Harry asked, curious. Dumbledore nodded, looking at him with a slight shame.
"It was totally disrespectful of me not to consult with you, its current homeowner... I hope you will forgive me."
Harry shook his head, dismissively, indicating that this was the obvious course of action.
"So...?" the young man returned to his first question. How things were in the wizarding world.
Dumbledore sighed and leaned back, settling himself into his cushioned seat.
"I don't have much more to add to what Remus told you. Voldemort, as a rule, is trying to make the magical population, and the Ministry of Magic first and foremost, forget that he has returned. He is pretending to be harmless, but, in the shadows, he is moving fast. He doesn't have much help yet, but it's only a matter of time. Still, he is making mistakes. And the result seems to make up for the occasional blunder. For someone as meticulous as Voldemort, mistakes are not an option."
"The missing French girl?" said Harry, straightening up in his chair. Dumbledore nodded, a shadow of pain darkening the wrinkles on his face.
"Exactly. That's the most obvious example. That girl must have something very valuable for him, to risk everyone being almost certain it was him, and not doing anything about it."
"They attacked the Daily Prophet's main office in Diagon Alley," Harry recalled, frowning.
"Exactly, his Death Eaters did. But not Voldemort himself. He hasn't been seen in public since what happened in the Department of Mysteries. So the question remains as to whether it is only Death Eaters acting on their own, or whether they are acting on his orders. Just like the Quidditch World Cup four years ago. They organised everything on their own, to instil fear."
"But it's... ridiculous," the boy interrupted, no longer able to contain himself, filled with indignation. "Professor, it's clear that things are happening. Even if the general population doesn't get the idea, it's clear to us that he's back. And I want to help. I'm sorry, but I don't care about my studies. I want to be part of the Order, I really want to help... Please, Professor."
Dumbledore smiled kindly, and Harry knew that his request had not impressed him. That he had expected it.
"Harry, right now, you could do little or nothing to help. I mean it," he insisted, seeing that the boy was looking at him with poorly disguised disbelief. "It's not an all-out war, Remus told you. We don't know what Voldemort is planning. We can only wait for him to make a mistake and then perhaps guess what his next target will be. And your presence would only keep the Order on the lookout for you, protecting you..."
"I don't need them to..." the boy mumbled, offended.
"You are important to Voldemort, and the fact that you are leaving the school will not go unnoticed. Remus explained it to you, too. Word will get out, he'll know, and he'll try to track you down. You're still his target. And, before you even mention it, no, we're not going to use you as bait," Dumbledore explained, unblinking, watching him with his piercing blue eyes. Harry seemed to deflate in his seat. "Once the term is over, you can go wherever you please. I won't be able to stop you. And it won't be so easy for him to track you down. I know it's difficult, but I ask for your patience, Harry."
The boy nodded, wistfully, looking down at his shoes. He snorted wearily. He hadn't even told his friends that he was going to see Dumbledore, and since it hadn't made any change in his life, he wouldn't tell them about it. He would pretend that the conversation with Remus had been enough. He didn't want them to think he was paranoid.
"I'll try, sir," he admitted, without looking up.
"If I hear of anything unusual that isn't reported in the Daily Prophet, or in that diamond in the rough, The Quibbler, I'll let you know," the old man offered. Harry lifted his head, looking at him with deep appreciation. "Is there anything else you want from me, Harry? Anything that concerns you?"
The boy swallowed his saliva surreptitiously. But he struggled to keep his face from being altered.
The voice.
That disturbing voice that had been taking away his peace of mind since the beginning of the school year was still a mystery. But he felt embarrassed just imagining telling the Headmaster about it. Watching him work hard, running a secret organisation behind the Ministry's back, and running a school at the same time, telling him about a sporadic voice that only spoke his name seemed embarrassing. Something unimportant enough. He still had nothing solid to say about it. In fact, he hadn't even ruled out that it was a simple joke.
"No, sir," he heard himself saying. "Nothing."
He remembered that he had uttered those very words in his second year, when he hadn't told him about hearing the Basilisk's voice behind the walls either. He felt a murky warmth on the back of his neck.
Dumbledore, oblivious to his inner concern, looked at him warmly over his half-moon spectacles as the boy rose to his feet.
"Don't hesitate to tell me about anything that worries you in the future. Until then, study hard and be good," he winked with one of his splendid blue eyes. Harry forced a smile.
"I always am, sir."
The sun had finally peeked through the clouds, and was streaming through the narrow windows that lined the walls of the Gryffindor Common Room, flooding the room with a gentle coppery light. Even the students in the room spoke more quietly than usual, as if no one wanted to disturb the warm atmosphere.
As Harry stepped through the portrait hole, he caught the gaze of a busy Ron, sitting in an armchair by the fireplace, almost facing him. The young red-haired boy stopped writing his essay and tried to catch his friend's eye, waving the hand with which he held his quill. Harry appreciated his gesture and approached without hesitation. Hermione, sitting in another seat nearby, saw Ron's gesture and looked over her shoulder and smiled when she saw Harry as well. She hurried to move her heavy bag away from the free seat between her and Ron, allowing him to sit there.
"Hello, where have you been?" Hermione greeted, pushing aside one of the books she had left on the armrest as well. "Ron says he hasn't seen you since lunch..."
"Oh, yeah, nothing special. I just wanted to pop over to the Quidditch pitch for a moment, to check something. I wasn't planning on being long, that's why I didn't tell you," he lied, leaning back in the soft armchair. He was feeling a little subdued after his unsuccessful conversation with Dumbledore, and felt that he could easily fall asleep there. Then he discovered Ginny, lying face down on the carpet in front of them. "Oh, hi! I thought we weren't going to see you until tonight, Ginny..."
The young woman, who had paused in her writing, and was looking at him with amusement as she waited for him to notice her, smiled.
"It turns out we've only had an hour of Care of Magical Creatures," she lay on her side so she could look at the boy better, resting her cheek on one hand. "Let's just say that Hagrid has... had a bit of a problem with some of the creatures. He got some Occamy eggs for a project and... they opened up in the middle of class. Prematurely, apparently," she let out a mischievous chuckle. "So he sent us all to the castle while he took care of half a dozen tiny feathered snakes... I didn't know what to do, so I came to the Common Room hoping to find you."
Harry grinned helplessly, holding back his laughter with great difficulty at her story. Despite being frankly stressed about Voldermort and that disturbing, mysterious voice, Ginny always managed to bring a sincere smile to his face. Even if he didn't feel like smiling. Her presence alone, the aura of enthusiasm that always shone on her freckled face, and the glowing red of her long hair, was enough to fill him with a strange, serene happiness.
"Gee," he conceded, astonished at such a story.
"Yes, yes, very interesting... But come on, here," Ron interjected enthusiastically, placing a roll of parchment and a quill in front of him, and placing the book he was using on his friend's armrest for them both to see. "We're going to do the essay on the Flagrante Curse for Flitwick together. It's still a while before we go to Defence Against the Dark Arts..."
Harry let out a laugh, taking the quill he held out to him.
"Have you run out of ideas, or what?"
"Quite possibly. Come on, come on..." he encouraged him to write, smiling in amusement.
"Before you turn an individual assignment into a group work..." Hermione quipped disapprovingly, reaching down to pick up a copy of The Quibbler from the floor beside her. "I've kept it for you, Harry. It's about the French girl..."
"Really?" the boy asked, taking it up immediately. "Have they found her?"
"No," Ron denied, trying to read Hermione's finished essay on the Flagrante Curse backwards. "They mention her as a reminder, so that people will notice if they see her. But it's the first time The Quibbler has published anything on the subject. And today's Daily Prophet didn't say anything about her."
"Either they were too busy today talking about the Diagon Alley attack, or they're going to stop publishing anything about her from now on," Ginny commented thoughtfully. "It would make sense to me that they'd be afraid, after what's happened..."
Harry snorted in frustration, stressed again, but he still opened the magazine and looked for the news.
As he skimmed the small article on one of the centre pages, the portrait hole opened and a tiny dark-haired boy staggered through, looking strangely panicked. He sped across the Common Room and ran up the stairs to the dormitories, as if someone was chasing him.
"I also think the Daily Prophet will refrain from publishing any more about the girl, in case the Death Eaters retaliate again," Hermione opined cautiously. "In fact, I'm surprised that The Quibbler is doing it..."
"I'm worried about Luna," Ron confessed in a whisper as he added a sentence to his essay. "Her father, more like. I hope he's careful. The Death Eaters will be after him."
"I'll talk to her tomorrow, but I'm sure he'll be safe. I'm sure the Order is protecting him," Ginny corroborated thoughtfully, tapping her chin with her quill.
"Does it make sense for The Quibbler to publish reminders?" Ron insisted, frowning. "I mean... are they assuming she's still alive?"
" If she'd been killed... they'd have found the body, wouldn't they?" his sister hesitantly protested. "Until there's no body, anything can happen. If I were the family, I'd want them to post notices every day. Anything to find her."
"He's got her alive, I'm sure," Harry insisted in turn, pursing his lips. "He needs her for something. Maybe he's using her at this very moment..."
"What if —" Ron suddenly proposed, looking up as Hermione moved her essay out of his field of vision so he wouldn't copy it, "— we're wrong to think of her as a victim? What if she's one of them?"
"What?" repeated Hermione incredulously, glaring fiercely at her friend.
"Think about it," Ron defended himself, shrugging. "Maybe she just joined them. Maybe she's a Death Eater and her friends didn't know. Or her family. And she's just sitting there at the beck and call of You-Know-Who, while everyone's looking for her, thinking she's in danger."
"Well, hey, it's not that far-fetched either," Ginny admitted reluctantly. Harry had opened his eyes wide, staring at the fire without seeing it, taking in such an option. Hermione, on the other hand, snorted loudly.
"Oh, please, you can't think that. Why should she just disappear, knowing that she would attract everyone's attention? The smart thing to do would be to be at his service while pretending to lead a normal life; and, besides —"
"Hermione Granger?" a high-pitched voice suddenly interrupted the conversation. She stopped her angry speech abruptly and blinked in confusion. Looking around. But there was no one nearby. She looked quizzically at her friends, who looked at her in the same way, proving that none of them were the ones who had spoken. Then she looked around again, but no other students seemed to be paying attention to her. None of the people around her seemed to have spoken to her.
"Yes, it's me... Who said that?" Hermione replied, to nowhere, confused.
"Up here," the voice said, and Hermione hurried to look in several directions, but couldn't find her. Harry, Ron and Ginny did the same. Ron even climbed onto the back of the chair to look behind it. "No, no, here... Merlin, give me patience... In the painting! In the fireplace!"
Hermione turned her head in that direction and her eyes discovered that, above the ornate fireplace, there was a small, old-fashioned picture with an elaborate frame. A small peasant girl stood impatiently behind the glass, a headscarf covering her hair and a pitcher of milk on her shoulder, accompanied by a sky-blue cow. It seemed to be the one who was calling her.
"The Fat Lady sent me, y'know?" said the peasant girl, in her sharp little voice. "There's a boy looking for you, and he's waiting for you at the entrance to the Common Room, y'know? In front of the portrait."
"Me?" Hermione replied, stunned. "Who?"
"Well, he hasn't told me his name, y'know?" the peasant girl sniggered, repositioning her pitcher on her other shoulder.
"Is it a boy?" said Harry with innocent curiosity. "From another House?"
"Yes, he's not from Gryffindor, y'know? That's why he can't come in, of course. I think he's from Slytherin House..."
The air rushed out of Hermione's lungs and threatened not to come back in. She could barely process that last bit of information. The gears in her brain kicked into high gear, but she felt as if they weren't properly oiled.
It was impossible that... He couldn't have committed such a reckless act... Right?
Or could he? Had something happened?
Trying to look puzzled, she turned her face to look at her friends. Harry and Ron wore similar expressions of shock and disbelief. Ginny had arched both eyebrows in obvious astonishment.
"Why is a Slytherin looking for you?" Ron exclaimed, unable to hide his anger. But it was clear that the anger was not at her. He made to start pushing his things away so he could get to his feet. "Don't even think about going out, we'll go and give him what he deserves. Who knows what — Where's my wand — ?"
"No, no, don't worry, it's probably Theodore Nott," Hermione guessed, perhaps a little too hastily. She awkwardly pushed aside the parchment and books on her lap to get to her feet. "Earlier he said that he — wanted to — er — ask for my help with today's Arithmancy lesson. It was complicated... But I didn't see him at the end of class. I guess he'll come to me for help now... I'll be right back, don't worry."
"That Nott again?" Ron mumbled, unable to contain himself, almost choking.
"Yes, Nott," said Hermione, laconic and slightly annoyed. "He goes to that class with me all the time. Is there a problem?"
"Of course not," Harry hastened to say, before Ron could think of anything to say against it. "Just... tell us if you need anything," he added, hesitantly but kindly. "And don't be too long, we've got to get to class soon..."
"Don't worry, I won't be long," she assured him, as she strode resolutely towards the exit. But with her heart pounding in her throat.
When she pushed open the portrait with her hand, with her back to her friends, the confidence in her face was gone. In fact, she couldn't stop the fear inside her from reflecting in her eyes, now that no one could see her. It was not at all clear to her what was waiting for her out there. And she wasn't sure she wanted to find out. Theodore Nott's presence didn't even strike her as a real possibility.
No sooner had she stepped over the threshold than she stood on the landing, surrounded by stairs leading in all directions, in front of the portrait. She looked both ways almost panic-stricken, alert, but there was no one outside. Was it a joke? Had he got cold feet and left? Was it really him...? She closed the portrait entrance behind her, still puzzled.
"Fat Lady," she began, turning to the woman, freakishly attired in a frilly dress. "Who — ?"
Her heartbeat had begun to relax, cautiously, but her calmness didn't last long. She didn't even have time to finish the question. Just as she should have expected, someone suddenly grabbed her arm, turning her forcibly. She found herself face to face with Draco Malfoy, stretched out towards her, and standing on the top steps of the stairs that descended to the left of the portrait. He seemed to have moved slightly away from the entrance, down the stairs, probably in case someone other than her appeared.
The girl hardly had time to be disconcerted. She reddened with rage instantly, pursing her lips tightly. It was the last straw.
"What the heck are you doing here — ? Hey!"
Without even letting her finish her protest, Malfoy's hand tightened like a pincer around her arm and dragged her, definitely not gently, down the stairs. He pulled her down the corridor, for several metres, and ended up shoving her into the first unoccupied classroom he could find. The Arithmancy one. He released her abruptly as soon as they both crossed the threshold, and Hermione hurried back several steps, offended, into the classroom.
She took a fleeting glance around, only to confirm that they were indeed alone. The warm afternoon sun was still peeking through the grey clouds, creating longer and longer shadows.
"What the hell's wrong with you?" she grumbled afterwards, rubbing her sore arm as she watched Malfoy close the door behind him. The blond's gaze was shadowed, and he seemed genuinely annoyed by something beyond the girl's knowledge. "Have you gone mad? How could you come looking for me in my Common Room? Do you want us to get caught again? What on earth has happened?"
"Now it's my fault that we got caught together? How can you be so bloody hypocritical?" Malfoy asked in return, his voice thick with pent-up fury, not answering any of her questions. He took a couple of steps closer to her, and she had to restrain herself from backing away, such was the fierceness of his gaze. "You have no shame. Why did you keep it from me, Granger? After you blamed me for not telling you about those two brutes! You damn selfish — I swear — you're — ! Merlin, how can you get on my nerves so much? I can't stand you, I swear I can't stand you — !" he cried out, in a huff, pacing back and forth in front of her.
The girl just stood still, following him with her eyes as he was ranting at her. Completely speechless. She didn't understand his anger, or his words. But she sensed that she was in serious trouble. She'd never seen him so upset. So angry with her. Because it wasn't disgust, or hate, it was... anger.
"Kept from you?" she managed to articulate, confused. "What have I — ?"
"What have you been keeping from me? Oh, you have memory problems? How about the fact that Pansy caught you snooping around the Hospital Wing, standing next to my bed, after the match? Does that seem the least bit relevant to you? Because it did to her," he spat, with sadistic irony, indignant and irritated. He took a breath, trying to keep the rage that was eating away at him at bay so as not to shout too loudly, but he barely managed it. "What the fuck were you thinking, didn't you think about what would happen if someone saw you? Are you so hell-bent on fucking up my life? I didn't think you were so low... I'm warning you, if I go down, you're going down with me."
Hermione grew paler and paler at each accusation. Now she understood his fury. Her worst fears were coming true right under her nose. Pansy Parkinson had turned out to be as mouthy as she appeared. She swallowed hard. She should have assumed it would happen. Once again, she had trusted the good sense of a Slytherin and it had backfired.
"Parkinson told you," the young woman murmured, so faintly that it was barely understood amidst the dense silence.
"Oh, yeah," he growled through his teeth, leaning closer to her, almost menacingly. "Me and my colleagues. Do you have any idea what a mess you've made?" he raised his voice again, getting more and more excited. "Do you have any idea what people might think, what it means when you and I are alone anywhere? Now everyone might start suspecting me! They'll think I've been in touch with a Mudblood! Now that Crabbe and Goyle haven't said anything, you come along and have to mess it all up again? Now that I was getting Nott to stop snooping around?" his voice had become a scream by now, "If you're trying to ruin my life, you're doing a hell of a job, Granger!"
"I don't want to do that!" Hermione defended herself, also shouting, and her voice sounded so strangled, so hurt, and so sincere, that Draco fell silent with shock. She didn't? "Damn it, Malfoy, stop yelling at me! It was an accident, all right?!"
At last he stopped screaming. He was gasping slightly. Silence fell between them. Hermione closed her eyes and let out a desolate sigh. She pressed her palms together, as if in prayer, and pressed them over her mouth, apprehensive. He had every reason in the world to be angry, she couldn't blame him.
"For God's sake, Malfoy, I'm... I'm sorry," she murmured, disheartened, and looked up at him again, pulling her hands away from her mouth. "I'm sorry, I really am. The last thing I wanted was to get you into any more trouble. I didn't mean any of that when I went to see you there."
"What did you mean then?" he said, regaining his voice. "And why didn't you tell me that Pansy saw you?"
"For the same reason you kept it from me that Crabbe and Goyle saw us!" she spat decisively. But the firmer her voice sounded, the harder it became to hold back her tears. And the lump in her throat was growing. "I had hoped that Parkinson wouldn't tell anyone. That it would all remain an unimportant anecdote. She didn't see anything, she didn't see us —" she didn't finish the sentence, and just took a breath and shook her head, "She didn't think anything strange, she just thought I'd gone there to attack you and I thought it wouldn't be dangerous. Malfoy, I screwed up, I was reckless, I know, but I didn't know what to do about it! I'm sorry!" she exclaimed more fiercely.
"Why?" Draco mumbled, frowning. He didn't shout that question, and the sudden change in tone made his voice sound like a whisper. "Why did you go to the Hospital Wing? What the hell did you want?"
"Because..." Hermione hesitated. She swallowed and closed her eyes for a moment, but finally met his gaze. "Because Nott had just told me about Crabbe and Goyle, and I needed to talk to you about it. To know what they'd told you, what they knew. That's all."
"Couldn't you have waited to talk about it somewhere less public?" he protested, mumbling.
Hermione snorted softly, still meeting his eyes. She felt inexplicably exasperated. She felt suddenly that the boy before her didn't understand anything, and she was beginning to feel annoyed with him. For no specific reason. She was on the verge of biting her tongue so as not to express out loud the reality that was going through her mind. But she didn't.
"And when is a good time for you and me to talk?" Hermione snapped, sharply. Draco bit his lower lip, looking away impatiently, and seemed to want to say something, but Hermione continued speaking. She couldn't stop now. She needed him to understand, even if it was a huge, huge mistake. "I...I needed to see you, all right?" she explained then, unable to contain herself. "You got knocked off your broom, it was a chilling blow, and I... I felt guilty. And I still do. You were right, I was the one who wanted us to talk after the Warrington thing in the first place, and that's why we got caught. Apart from the..." again she couldn't articulate the word 'kiss', feeling almost voiceless. She had to look away. "Besides talking to you, I needed to know you were all right. That's why I went to the Hospital. I needed... to see you."
Her voice cracked and she fell silent, dropping her gaze to the stone floor of the classroom. She bit her tongue now, though it was too late. Maybe she had said too much... Well, without the 'maybe'. She hadn't meant to say all that. Admitting that she had needed to see him. She had just confessed to Draco Malfoy that she had needed to know he was all right. Was that supposed to be allowed? Could she feel that way? She didn't know anymore...
Draco stared at her in silence, still fighting to keep his anger from waning, to keep him biting and defensive. But it was getting harder and harder. And, now, after having been through her entire speech with the urge to shout her down, he felt he could not speak. The words she had spoken floated between them, binding them together and separating them at the same time.
'I needed... to see you.'
Was that supposed to make sense? That justified her presence in the Hospital Wing?
"Did you need to know I was all right, Granger?" Draco repeated in his mind, feeling equal parts confused and disbelieving. His heart was racing, as if he had just come running there. "Why?"
He refused to ask her out loud. He needed to get away from such a confession. He didn't understand it, and he couldn't afford to dwell on it. He felt he would go mad if he tried to make sense of it. If you hate someone, you don't care if they're well or not. It's as simple as that. But Granger couldn't make it simple for a change.
"What exactly did Pansy say to you when she found you there?" he asked instead, sharply, in a quieter voice. "What did she think? What did you say to her?"
"Didn't she tell you?" questioned the girl, quietly, somewhat confused. She almost seemed grateful to change the subject.
"Yes, but I want to know your side of it. To know if you're still lying to me or not," he spat without a hint of empathy, barely moving his lips. Hermione grimaced subtly, but she thought it was only fair. He had reason to doubt her.
"She thought I was going to attack you in your sleep," Hermione summarised, leaning her lower back against the desk behind her. She needed to lean against something. Standing in front of Malfoy, with him glaring at her with a fierce stare, was making her not know what to do with her limbs. "And I made up the hasty lie that McGonagall was sending me there to find out how you were doing. To find out if you needed to be transferred to St. Mungo's. She didn't seem to believe it, but at least she didn't insist. She didn't think anything else, I can assure you. At least she didn't tell me," she faltered, not quite sure what to say next. She cleared her throat and added, "I left as soon as I could. What did she tell you? Who else did she tell?"
Draco had listened attentively, his arms firmly folded across his chest. He sized her up for a moment longer, then gave way to calm speech.
"She told me the same thing. She thought you were going to attack me. She'd like to report you, and the others have encouraged her to tell Dumbledore so that he can expel you. But since she didn't see you clearly do anything to me, and there are no other witnesses, it doesn't look like she's going to do it," he said reluctantly, glaring at her. To his own disbelief, seeing how remorseful the girl felt made him unable to continue shouting at her. That was not how he had thought the conversation was going to go. He hadn't thought they were going to have a conversation. He was still very, very angry, though. "She told it in front of some of the team. At first they didn't even believe it. And when they did, they took it the same way. Nobody thinks any different. Of course, I wouldn't think any different if I were them, either..." he finally disdainfully remarked, almost holding back a bitter laugh.
Draco then remembered Bletchley's unexpected joke, that Granger had a crush on him and that was why she'd gone to see him there. His brain hadn't given it much thought at the time, considering it to be stupid. It had only been a joke, emphasising the ridiculousness of such a thing. Bletchley had instantly rectified it. He didn't really believe it. And, come to think of it, he hadn't accused him, Draco, of anything. Even if they thought such a thing, as long as they only thought it of Granger, he didn't care.
Besides, that wasn't true. And he knew it. The others had no idea what was really going on between them. But he and Granger did. And nothing like that was happening...
He had almost panicked when talking to Pansy, but, if he thought about it coldly, nothing to regret had happened. Her friend didn't suspect Granger's true intentions. And neither did the team. They had come to the most normal conclusion in the world, given their relationship. At least, the relationship they showed to the world. They thought she was going to hurt him.
He closed his eyes against his own thoughts. That was the relationship they were supposed to have, and not the one they... had. And what relationship did they have, exactly? Damn it... At this point, he had no idea.
Hermione, for her part, gave a resigned smile at his words, with a hint of complicity. But her eyes still looked worried. She took a shaky breath and blew it out.
"God," she muttered, slumping her shoulders heavily. "Thank goodness. What a mess," she raised her bright eyes, and looked at Draco almost anxiously. Almost seeking comfort. "Do you think Pansy will ever tell the teachers anything? If she tells McGonagall I'll be in trouble. She knows perfectly well she didn't send me to the Hospital. She'll catch me in a lie, and she might even believe Parkinson's version... I don't know how I'll justify it."
Malfoy hesitated, calibrating his next words. He watched the girl carefully. The worry in her moist eyes, the frown of anguish on her lips. He felt something uncomfortable clogging his throat. He felt himself infected by her anguish. He found himself frantically searching for something to say that would reassure her.
Which didn't exactly reassure himself.
He ran his tongue over his lips, to moisten them, and forced his tone of voice to be deeper than usual, and as scornful as he could make it, as he sentenced:
"Don't talk nonsense. You're the apple of McGonagall's eye, her favourite pupil. She would never think of you as having tried to attack a classmate. You're safe," he tried to stamp his voice with rancour, but it barely showed. He folded his arms again, as if trying to protect himself from something he couldn't see, and said, without looking at her, dryly, "But I'll make sure Pansy doesn't say anything to the teachers. You won't have to justify anything."
Hermione glanced at him, slightly confused. Not quite knowing what to say. Not understanding the boy's real intentions. Was he being... nice? For no reason? Why?
"Would you?" was all the girl managed to say, in a very low voice.
"Not for you," he hastened to clarify, with quick disdain. "I don't give a shit whether you get into trouble or not. Serves you right, for being a goddamn reckless. But I want to forget this stupid business as soon as possible. I don't want to be involved with you in any way."
She snorted softly through her nose. Not annoyed. Just a little impatient. Keen to tell him a thing or two. But decided not to. She had to look away, but nodded with resignation, trying hard to feel calmer. In fact, that was better. That was what she was used to.
"Do you think she will agree not to report me?" she wanted to know, calmly, without rancour at his words. They didn't seem to have surprised her, which suddenly made Draco uncomfortable. "She was very angry with me. She was... mad at the idea that I might try to attack you."
Draco felt a pang of affection for his friend. He understood. And he could well imagine that reaction. Pansy had always been very protective of him. Sometimes even too protective.
"Leave it to me, she'll listen to me. She always listens to me," he mumbled, distracted.
Hermione let out a sad smile. She stared at him for a few seconds in silence, assessing the whole situation in her mind.
"So everything's... fine, then? No one suspects anything?" she insisted cautiously.
"No," he admitted reluctantly, realising that he had no concrete reason to remain angry with his interlocutor. At least, no more than usual. "Even if you are damn reckless. But the truth is, this wasn't like Crabbe and Goyle's issue. Pansy didn't see us —" he faltered mid-sentence, unable, like her, to utter the word 'kissing'. But Hermione, once again, understood him anyway. After a moment's reconsideration, he continued more sharply, almost to himself, "They made some absurd joke, but I stopped them straightaway. I told them never to mention it again. That they should be ashamed, as pure-bloods, to imagine anything... unusual between me and a Mudblood. I don't think they'll bring it up again. They know not to provoke me," he added, with bravado.
She concentrated all her strength into a sardonic grin.
"I see you've worked it out," she remarked, with slight irony, trying to appear nonchalant and satisfied with the situation.
But his words had not left her unmoved. 'That they should be ashamed, as pure-bloods, to imagine anything... unusual between me and a Mudblood.' Those words had hurt deep in her chest, in an area she hadn't even thought could hurt. To Malfoy, the idea of a pure-blood and a Mudblood together was disgusting. Embarrassing. Humiliating. The worst betrayal a wizard could commit.
And Hermione couldn't afford to forget that.
And yet, despite such claims... he had kissed her. Her. A Mudblood.
She felt a tight lump in her throat, but forced herself to push it all out of her mind immediately. It didn't have to affect her. Malfoy and his radical beliefs didn't have to affect her at all. Her chest shouldn't be hurting like this. She and Malfoy were nothing. They'd just done stupid things and lived through situations that led nowhere. They meant nothing. How could they mean anything at all?
"You shouldn't have come to see me," Draco muttered softly, pulling her out of her thoughts. Hermione looked up. He was looking annoyed again. "I've been lucky, but you could very well have fucked up my life. If Pansy had come to different conclusions... Do you realise that we've been caught twice together because of you? For insisting on talking to me when you didn't have to?"
She swallowed, looking stricken but slightly defensive.
"You're right," Hermione confessed, nonchalantly. "It's partly my fault..."
"Partly?" he spat, taking another step closer. Arguing was much more reassuring. More common. Easier.
"If you'd told me about Crabbe and Goyle in the first place, I wouldn't have come to see you in the Hospital," Hermione spat, breaking away from the desk and moving closer as well, glaring at him fiercely. "You know perfectly well you should have told me. Together we could —"
"Together?" Draco spat, not looking away. She bit her lower lip, which had begun to tremble. She was aware of the illogic of such a designation for them, given their relationship of mutual hatred and contempt. But some things had changed, and they had to be consistent with it. Even if he pretended it was business as usual.
"Together we could have found a solution, in case things got complicated. For me too. I had the right to know, you shouldn't have kept it from me," Hermione insisted. She swallowed again, her throat feeling dry. "It was something that affected both of us."
"I told you before in the Entrance Hall that they were not going to tell anything..."
"But I didn't know it the day of the match!" she justified herself, raising her voice, beginning to tire of his excuses.
"I don't care, y-you..." Draco stammered, trying to keep his anger flaring so he could continue to accuse her. But he wasn't sure what to say to her. "You shouldn't have gone to the Hospital. We could have talked about Crabbe and Goyle at another time. Why did you do something so stupid?" he asked again, unable to contain himself, his voice lower than he'd intended, but full of contempt.
He moved closer to her, until he was right in front of her. He suddenly wanted to hear again from her lips that she had needed to see him. That she had needed to know he was all right. He didn't know why, but he wanted to hear it. Though he wasn't sure he could bear it. Which was slightly ironic. He was torn between the desire to cover his ears and the desire to shake her so that she would say such words again.
'What if I were a pure-blood?'
The question once again furrowed his mind at the most inopportune moment, stunning him. Despite his efforts, despite his desperate refusal, his mind flew away. It decided it was a good time to imagine such a thing. To question what he would think of her if her blood status was right. If blood were not an insurmountable obstacle. He allowed himself to appreciate her obvious intelligence. To really appreciate it, objectively. She wasn't just smart for studies, for memorising spells and getting O's on exams, she was smart for everything. To express herself, to reason. She was unashamedly perceptive. Rarely... had he ever felt so comfortable talking to anyone. So comfortable knowing that, even if they were completely different, and most of their conversations had been based on arguments, on opposing opinions, he didn't have to measure his words. That was a nice change from the deep-thinking yokels of Crabbe and Goyle, with whom he felt he had to measure his vocabulary to be understood. Zabini was intelligent, but there was always an alarm blaring in his brain reminding him to live up to his surname and be a proud pure-blood; a scathing and eloquent person. With Pansy he was much more comfortable, but he also forced himself to always be the best, to not fall off the pedestal she had placed him on. With Nott, his closest friend, it was a much more similar feeling of trust and understanding. Of being himself. But with Granger it was... another level. Another level of rapport, of mutual understanding. She always knew what to say. Always. She always understood what he meant. Sometimes, just by looking into her eyes, he knew what was going through her mind, even if she didn't speak it out loud. He knew if she was sorry, if she was angry, if she was going to make fun of what he had said... She was an open book. He'd noticed that on several occasions before. And it was bloody disturbing to realise something like that. Granger was… different. She was unbiased and rational. Cultured, avid reader, hard worker, and perfectionist. Know-it-all, bossy, and nosy. Compassionate and empathetic. Stern. Proud. Warm. Arrogant, but humble at the same time. Strong. Obstinate. Sincere.
She was, on the whole, a person full of nuances. Some attractive, others maddening. And yet, he felt, he didn't know a tenth of what, he sensed, Granger hid inside. Despite the fact that they had known each other since they were children.
How could he still think that Mudbloods were, by definition, inferior to pure-bloods, when he had in front of him the person with whom he'd ever had the best rapport in his entire life, intellectually and even — fuck — emotionally? And possibly the most talented witch of her age that he'd ever met?
Hermione, for her part, was slow to answer his question. Why had she done something so stupid? She was barely managing to breathe at his proximity, even less could she open her mouth to speak. She gritted her teeth. She was suddenly holding back tears, and she was afraid she wouldn't be able to hold them back any longer if she spoke. She shook her head and shrugged, averting her gaze to the side. She had no words to answer him. She couldn't answer him without breaking down. And she wasn't about to break down in front of him. The possible answers running through her mind didn't help, and she certainly didn't plan to share them with him.
"It was rash, and I'm sorry, but I needed to talk to you," she protested, managing to force a dry tone. "I needed you to explain everything, and to know that you weren't killed because of me. I just wanted —"
"Damn you; if there's anyone here who's going to kill me, it'll be you," he muttered with sudden ferocity, interrupting her. Hermione looked him in the eye, almost reflexively at his words. Draco's feline grey eyes glittered in the gloom of the classroom, narrowed like two silver stars. They glittered with anger, with pent-up emotion. With frustration. And Hermione was suddenly unclear whether that frustration was against her. Draco raised his hands on either side of her body, and held them still in the air, as if he intended to instinctively hold her arms. As if he wanted to crush her, or grab her, or shake her with his hands. But he didn't.
Instead, he lunged forward, startling her. Malfoy approached the petite girl on an indescribable impulse and wrapped a single arm around her, pulling her close to him and pressing her tightly against his chest, leaving her no chance to flee. Hermione froze as she felt the distance between them disappear. As she felt herself inside his arms, inside his hug. She felt an overwhelming emptiness inside her, as if she had skipped a step down the stairs. Her eyes widened like saucers and the tears that had collected on her lower eyelid slid down her cheeks. She didn't move her hands, dead on either side of her hips.
She smelled the scent of his body, of his clothes. Her cheek pressed against his chest, his warmth reaching through the fabric of his uniform and into her skin. In fact, she wasn't sure if the burning that suddenly invaded her cheeks came from inside her or was a reflection of the boy's warmth. She felt his chest rise and fall rapidly under her face, struggling for breath. As was she. Hermione tried futilely to control her own breathing, so that it wouldn't come through so clearly in the silence. She could hear his heartbeat, rapid and out of sync. Or was it her own?
"What — what are you doing?" she whispered, confused, bringing out her usual habit of wanting to know everything, even if there were things that didn't need to be explained. Any action, such as shouting at him or pushing him away, was far beyond her capacity at the moment. She felt his forearm pressing against her back, placed horizontally. She did not feel his hand, nor the pressure of his fingers. Possibly it was clenched in a firm fist, not even touching her.
"I don't know," Malfoy replied, also in a harsh whisper, not loosening his hug one iota. Hermione could feel his jaw against the top of her head, and felt it move when he spoke. "I haven't understood anything I've been doing for a long time."
Draco, eyes tightly shut, didn't even curse himself for what he was doing. He would have time to regret and hate himself later. He knew he would. Possibly, that very night he would plan his own murder, perhaps by drowning himself in the shower. But not now. Now he simply didn't have the strength. He was very, very tired of fighting himself. Of holding himself back. Of fighting against his instincts, against being close to her. It was as if he was sleepy, and he hadn't allowed himself to sleep for weeks, keeping himself awake with slaps in the face. It was just too much. He just needed to hold her close, just once, to know what it felt like. If it was really that terrible. If so many prohibitions were justified. Having her pressed tightly against him was like hitting a wall with all his might; a total release.
At the same time as a fucking torture, burdening him with remorse.
Hermione was shaking in sudden jerks. Her eyes were quickly filling with tears again. And they were tears of fear. Fear at the way he was making her feel. Malfoy felt so warm, so big, and his hug was so strong that he was making her feel protected in his arms. Making her think of feelings. And she couldn't feel that way. Because it wasn't real.
'That they should be ashamed, as pure-bloods, to imagine anything... unusual between me and a Mudblood.'
That was the real Malfoy, the one who had uttered those harsh words. And not the one who was hugging her so tightly, giving her that false, heady sense of security. That was just another mistake. She couldn't allow herself to think otherwise.
"Let me go," Hermione suddenly demanded in a strained voice. She was trying so hard to control her tears that her voice was beginning to crack. She couldn't bear his proximity. She couldn't bear that he, and only he, could make her feel this way. "Let me go..."
Before he had managed to react, and leave his turbulent thoughts, Hermione had raised both arms and thrust her hands, clenched into firm fists, between their bodies. She levered them together, slowly pushing him by the chest, forcing him to break the hug. Malfoy abruptly dropped the arm with which he had been holding her against him.
However, they did not move too far apart. Their profiles almost brushed as she raised her head to meet his eyes, and he lowered his as well. Hermione felt her awkward gasps, almost slight sobs, escape her lips and crash against his, such was the proximity. Draco clenched his jaws tightly, but even that didn't give him enough self-control. And he gave in. He broke the closeness, and pressed his lips to hers in a firm kiss. Hermione sobbed against them instantly, but did not pull away. Draco reached out both hands and placed them on her back, pulling her closer to him. She couldn't move. Her hands were still raised and clenched into firm fists, pressed against his chest. She wanted to hold on to him, but she couldn't. His lips, pressed against hers, were leaving her breathless. And she couldn't care less. Maybe breathing would end the moment. She didn't know. But she wasn't going to risk it.
Draco parted his lips then and enveloped them around hers. And Hermione felt how soft they were. The strength of his jaw. Two quick movements, too brief, and he released her heated lips. And she felt him descend. Barely breaking away. She saw him tilt his face, seeking the line of her jaw, tracing it with fleeting kisses. Hermione forgot that she was already able to breathe.
She wasn't the only one shivering. Draco's lips were trembling against her skin.
"Stop me," he suddenly pleaded, breaking the silence. His lips had reached the angle of her jaw, and he pressed them there as he spoke. "Stop this. Walk away. Like you did the day I hit Warrington. Tell me to stop."
His breath collided with her ear, and she gasped at the sensation. Her skin crawled all over. She couldn't remember anyone ever kissing her on the jaw, she had never felt anyone's breath on her ear... She had never felt that emptiness in her stomach, that sensation of longing, of desire...
Getting no response, Draco descended further, faster, and his lips reached her throat, beginning to trail down it. Hermione flinched and tilted her head to the opposite side instantly, reflexively, giving him more space. The thick strands of hair over her shoulder were pushed back by the movement. She felt the boy's hands dig into her back, feeling bigger than they actually were. It felt like he was everywhere, surrounding her, enveloping her...
"Tell me to stop," Draco insisted, more urgently. But then he opened his mouth and caught the skin of her neck between his teeth. And Hermione let out an uncontrollable, choked moan that echoed clearly in the silence of the classroom. She squirmed in his arms, tensing her shoulders, holding back. She could feel the harshness of his teeth, the warmth of his breath, the wetness of his mouth... She wondered if such a gesture would leave a mark on her. "Fuck, Granger..."
He let go of her skin so he could speak. Breathlessly. And Hermione didn't know how to interpret such a claim. Was he cursing her for what was happening? Was it an expression of venting because of his... arousal? But then he caressed with his tongue and kissed the place he'd bitten, with unexpected thoughtfulness. And Hermione stopped thinking instantly. And she almost felt faint, with a throbbing between her legs. She had to remind her legs to keep supporting her. But the sensation was so indescribable, so intoxicating... So real. She forced herself to take an urgent breath and couldn't help biting her lower lip, trying to bear it all. Trying to keep her composure. Because she was letting herself go, and she wasn't even doing anything.
"Granger," he hissed again, in a hoarse growl against her throat. "Put me away. Stop me. Stop me, for fuck's sake..." his voice was choked, almost sobbing. Almost pleading. But she still didn't answer. So his lips returned to her jaw, as his left hand left her back and ran up and down her right arm in a slow caress over her robes. He seemed to need to run his hands over her now that he had allowed himself to touch her, now that he had passed that barrier. To take in that she was there. That she was real. "Granger..."
"I can't."
Hermione's words were like tinkling crystals in the silence. And Draco stood still. He couldn't breathe. Unable to raise his face, unable to look her in the face. It was easier to be against her neck. And then he felt something flutter over his chest, over his clothes. It was her hands, her fists suddenly open, palms flat on his body. Setting it on fire. And they moved. They ran over him in rapid upward strokes, across the sides of his neck, reaching his cheeks. She herself turned his face away from her neck, and sought his lips with urgency. Feeling her mouth against his again, hot, frantic, Draco forgot to think. And he merely reciprocated. Merely regain his mobility. Because it wasn't enough. It wasn't enough anymore.
He lifted the hand he was stroking her arm with and placed it on her face, groping. To pull her. To pull her closer to his mouth. Not knowing if it was possible. His hand reached beyond her cheek. He felt her frizzy hair under his fingers, and the wetness of tears on his palm. Crying. She was crying. But she was also ravaging his mouth.
He felt an unexpected warmth take over his body. An overwhelming warmth, born in the centre of his chest and spreading to his extremities. He felt the blood pulsing in his ears. In his fingers. In his legs. And, again, he needed to move.
He moved forward, pulling the young woman with him. Carefully. Just a few steps, not even knowing where he intended to take her. And it wasn't long before he felt her back hit the desk she'd been leaning against before, forcing her to stop. Draco was too lost in her mouth to think how to proceed next, but Granger did it for him. One of the girl's hands released his face and she used it to press her palm against the surface of the table, giving herself momentum, and so she sat on the edge of the desk after reaching it by standing on her tiptoes. Her legs were dangling. And he was between her legs.
Draco felt his own exhalation crash against her mouth. He had caught a fleeting, unfocused, blurry glimpse of her face as she broke the kiss for a few moments until she climbed onto the desk. Her eyes were shining. Her face was shining. She was flushed. Stifled. And her small hand returned to his face as soon as she was settled. Pulling him in again.
Unable to reason anything at that moment, he simply followed her. He moved closer to her body, leaving her legs spread wide on either side of his hips. Getting as close as he could to her body in the gap between them. Feeling the fabric of her skirt brush against his trousers. Her thighs on either side. Her back in his hands.
Damn, that felt... terrific.
Frantic, he growled against her mouth. Barely registering his own sound, despite having heard it clearly amidst the silence. But he decided to concentrate on his hands, running down her back, running along her waist, almost tangling in her ample uniform robes. Granger's hand stroked his cheek again in an awkward, trembling way, sending a shiver up and down his spine. Now it was she who let out a moan, muffled by his lips. Sending another shiver that sent a tremor through his hips. Draco lowered his hand, resting it on her lower back. Wanting to pull her in further. But he had enough sanity to simply crumple the robe between his fingers. Controlling himself. But then she released his face and slipped her arm over his shoulders, to wrap it around the back of his neck. To encompass even more of him, tugging him to her. And Draco didn't know which of them moaned that time.
They devoured each other. That might be the most appropriate expression. For long seconds. Almost furiously, almost as an ungainly form of venting. And then they both separated their faces. So they could breathe, really. But they also looked at each other. And they also came back to reality.
Draco's face couldn't have looked more tormented. He was panting. He clenched his jaws and let out hissing air between his teeth. He bit his lower lip, so hard that Hermione thought he must be hurting himself badly. He opened his mouth again, tentatively close to hers, but this time managing not to touch it.
"Damn you," he rasped, almost voicelessly, hitting warm breath against her lips. "Get away from me. Don't let me do this."
Hermione swallowed back a sob and pulled away from him slightly, leaning back. She couldn't stop shaking; with longing, with anger, with arousal, with shame. She had told Harry and Ron that she would be back in a few minutes. She shouldn't be making out like that with Draco Malfoy in an empty classroom. She couldn't.
Because it was all a big mistake. A mistake that they kept making. A meaningless physical attraction, a risk that wasn't worth it. Because it meant nothing more than the stupid, hormonal desire of two teenagers. It was not logical, not rational, just pure human impulses.
Otherwise, Malfoy would never have laid a single finger on her. And she knew it.
His eyes were making it clear. He felt tormented. Regretful. And she couldn't bear that he felt that way. It hurt too much to realise that he regretted what was happening. She didn't want anyone to be ashamed of loving her, of wanting her. She didn't want anyone like that nearby. Despite the overwhelming evidence that the person in front of her would feel this way... she couldn't bear it. She couldn't bear the torment she saw in his eyes.
"Enough," Hermione whispered, feeling the weight of guilt crushing her. Feeling the pain of disappointment envelop her, which humiliated her even more. "Malfoy, enough... Stay away."
Granger's strangled voice pierced the boy's chest, like the sharp blade of a dagger. Without warning, at the mention of his surname, as if by the darkest magic, the faces of his parents materialised in Draco's mind. As did images of all his father's lectures on the purity of blood. The opinions of his friends, of his acquaintances, about the purity of blood and the extermination of the Muggle race. His teachings, promoted by his parents, his ideals. Defending the cause of the Dark Lord. The first time he heard of the word 'Mudblood' when he was so young. It all came back to him with chilling clarity. An electric shock ran through him, jolting him back to his senses as if waking from a nightmare.
He was touching Hermione Granger. Hugging a Mudblood. Kissing an impure, an inferior being, a friend of the blood traitors Potter and Weasley, a Gryffindor...
Someone who shouldn't even know his world. Someone who was not worthy of magic. Despite her obvious talent.
Someone from a race he had sworn to exterminate at the first opportunity.
Someone he was attracted to in a way he had never been attracted to anyone before.
It wasn't the right thing to do. He couldn't do it. He couldn't.
But he was doing it.
Draco managed to release her, slowly. First her back, then her face. He took a step back, giving her space. His pulse was racing and his breathing was shallow. He was shaking as if he had a fever. His forehead was covered with cold sweat.
Hermione's eyes were teary, but she was no longer trembling. She climbed down from the table with all the dignity she could muster, almost sliding off the edge until her feet touched the floor.
"We've been lucky that neither Crabbe, Goyle nor Parkinson have spread the word about the mistakes we've made these past few weeks," she said, her voice tight but firm. "So let's not push our luck any further. Just go away. Please."
It cost her untold effort to utter those words. And what cost her the most was to keep the tears from accompanying them. Malfoy was glaring at her, his jaw clenched tightly shut. And Hermione wouldn't have known what he was thinking. She didn't know if he was offended, furious, or remorseful. His face had become a mask of impassivity.
"For once we agree," he managed to say without hesitation, but with a more than obvious tremor in his voice.
He turned his back on her at once, striding towards the exit. He stopped as he reached the door, his hand already on the handle, and turned his face slightly. She hadn't moved a muscle.
"Did I get you in trouble by showing up in your Common Room?" Malfoy asked, his voice as cold as a draft.
"No," Hermione assured him firmly, straining to speak above the knot in her vocal cords. "No one has found out."
Malfoy didn't reply, and, before the girl could think of anything else to say, he was out the door without looking back. Hermione stared at the door without seeing it. Literally, without seeing it, for the tears blocked any possible view.
What had just happened?
She could still feel the edge of the desk against her back. The desk against which Malfoy had kissed her with a passion she could never have imagined in him, or in herself. What had happened to them? It was mad. They were completely mad...
At the loneliness of the classroom, and at the helplessness she felt in her chest, she burst into tears without being able to contain herself. She covered her face with her hands and sobbed into them. Sniffling, almost choking. Letting it all out. She felt, almost groping, for the chair next to the desk and dropped into it, sinking her face back into her hands.
The feel of Draco's teeth, on her neck, still burned.