Hermione resisted the urge to touch her lips. Again. That would bring it back — bring him back, and she was having enough trouble forgetting him already. Well, not him, necessarily; just his lips.

Lying on her back as she had been for several hours now, she blinked up at the ceiling of her four-poster bed. The darkness made it impossible to see, but her mind filled in the rich mahogany that hung above her.

Her thoughts had run around in so many directions and back again, and still she could only settle on one thing for certain:

He — Malfoy — Draco Malfoy had kissed her.

Naturally, many questions followed, such as why he had done so and what she was going to do about it.

After many hours' contemplation, all went unanswered. Which was a significant problem, seeing as she had to face him tomorrow. The thought made one of her inner organs flip in — nervousness? Fear?

She swallowed, breathed for a moment, then went back to her original thought.

He kissed me. Why?

Had it been premeditated? Had he planned it out and spent God knew how long waiting for the perfect opportunity? Or had it been a sudden crime of passion?

This was, of course, assuming that he'd wanted it at all. There was always the possibility he'd done it to humiliate her somehow. Maybe he'd done it on a bet — or for blackmail material. One of his friends — Crabbe or Goyle or even Zabini, whom he'd chatted with at the party — could have easily been hiding in the shadows…

Her heart thumped heavily, nausea suddenly swirling in her gut, and she swiftly brushed the thought aside. His motive wasn't relevant, anyway.

What did matter was how she was going to move forward. She would not walk into the lab again — be alone with him again — until she knew exactly how she felt. He would not fluster her or take her by surprise again, she would make sure of it. But therein lay the problem: her head was such a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and feelings that she couldn't begin to pull them apart. How did she feel? How was she supposed to know?

She'd never been kissed before. Not like that. Viktor had given her a sweet peck on the lips, once, but she suspected that was a case of intercultural misunderstanding. He'd never wanted anything more than a friendly companion for the ball and, as one of the only people in the castle who actively did not want to talk about Quidditch, she'd been happy to provide that. The single kiss from him had been an expression of friendship and nothing more; Hermione was certain.

Draco's kiss (kisses?), however, was an entirely different matter. There had been nothing platonic in the way his lips had touched hers. She'd felt the gentle push and pull as he'd carefully pressed kisses against her mouth, trying to go a bit further each time. The thought of it brought back that fluttering feeling and she had to wrench her hand away from where it had wandered back to her mouth.

Was she stupid? Had this been coming all along? She'd searched her memory over and over again; there was nothing there that stuck out as flirtatious. She'd never looked particularly nice around him, definitely not when they were brewing. In fact, he'd always gone out of his way to point out her clothes fit wrong and her hair was absurd.

And that, of course, was only the beginning. Insults to her appearance were probably the mildest of the cruelties he'd done to her. For five years, she'd endured slurs and harassment of all sorts. He'd made her cry more times than she could remember. His bullying had left her afraid to walk around the castle alone and ashamed of her own performance in lessons. And in second year, when the Chamber of Secrets had opened, he'd told her he wanted her to die. To be brutally killed by a monster. He'd smiled when he said it.

She didn't care he'd been twelve. No-one of any age should be able to feel that much hatred. Harry and Ron would never know how much it had frightened her. That year more than any other, she'd wished she'd never gone to Hogwarts, never been a witch. If she could just have been a Muggle (like Malfoy wanted!) and gone to a normal English Muggle school, she wouldn't have had to go through all this. And with his father on the Board of Governors, there was no way Draco would see punishment for his behaviour in school, so she would never be safe. In the split second she'd spotted the basilisk in her hand mirror, she'd known the world would only ever listen to him, even if that meant leaving her for dead.

He hadn't called her a Mudblood since before last Christmas, since before they'd slept in the classroom whilst Mr Weasley went to hospital. He hadn't made any rude observations about her ancestry since… Easter.

But what did it matter? Maybe he'd just grown tired of it. After all, keeping up that level of bullying for hours every day would have been exhausting. Had been exhausting; he'd tried for at least a month.

But it didn't mean he wasn't thinking it. And didn't that make the rest of it irrelevant?

She curled up, feeling much smaller all of a sudden. It was well past midnight, she was sure of it, and her adrenaline had finally drained. Harry had another private lesson with Dumbledore tomorrow, which should occupy her well enough and, seeing as she didn't have Ancient Runes, she wouldn't have to face Draco until the evening.

That would give her enough time to put herself back together. And then she'd look him in the eye and say what she needed. Whatever that may be.

"Ah-gwah-men-ti."

Hermione flipped through The Daily Prophet, displeased by the headlines.

"Akwamenti. Dammit! Come on... Aguamenti!"

"RON!" Hermione snatched her now-soaked newspaper away from the water spraying from Ron's wand.

"Sorry!"

"You can't just practise a spell like that at breakfast!" With a nonverbal tap of her wand, her newspaper dried, though a little wrinklier than before.

"I'm sorry — really! — but Flitwick said we have to have it perfect by today and I can't get it right —"

"Try a smoother wand motion," she snapped while searching for the article she'd been reading. "You're being too aggressive with your wrist."

"Right, will do; thanks…"

Hermione exhausted the newspaper within a matter of minutes. There was nothing new, except for the latest missing person reports and a handful of obituaries. The Ministry was making no progress tracking Voldemort, or they were not willing to publicise it. Hermione found the former much more probable.

Dumbledore's chair was empty.

Hermione hoped his meeting with Harry would yield some useful information. She was beginning to understand the restlessness Harry felt whilst they waited for the rest of the world to act. Funnily enough, Harry himself seemed rather content at the moment. Maybe Ginny's sitting next to him had something to do with it. Hermione glanced at Ron beside her and wondered if he was oblivious to it or in denial.

Either way, she'd sat with her back to the Slytherin table, and happily left the Great Hall without having seen Malfoy at all.

Of course, he still crept into her thoughts throughout the day. When she was listening to Flitwick's lecture, for instance, and her mind wandered to last night. She didn't notice until she caught herself softly tracing her lips.

She clenched her fist and doubled down on her schoolwork. Her free period was spent relentlessly tutoring Ron and Harry and, though they complained she was too demanding, their Water Charms were perfect by lunchtime. They happily left her to her Arithmancy textbook while they ate and didn't see her again until much later in the Gryffindor common room.

"I told you, Hermione, I don't know what he's going to teach me tonight. It could be — I dunno, how to breed Flobberworms for all I know."

"I know that, Harry, but I really think you should bring some parchment and a quill. What if he gives you some important dates or names?"

Ron snorted. "I don't think Dumbledore will be giving him a supplemental History of Magic lecture, Hermione."

"Well, maybe he should! The secret to defeating Voldemort may very well be hidden in his past, and there are some things that you just can't remember without writing down!"

"Hermione" — Harry held up his hands in a placating gesture — "if he tells me anything like that, I'll write it down, I promise. And either way, I'll tell you everything when I come back."

To Hermione, this was entirely inadequate, but she'd got so tangled up in her own anger that she didn't know how to explain it to him.

"When is the meeting, anyway?" asked Ron. He'd crumpled his Chocolate Frog wrapper into a ball ages ago and had been fiddling with it ever since. Hermione wanted to chuck it into the fire.

"'Bout an hour." Harry flipped through the Half-Blood Prince's pages, which was apparently his new habit, then looked at her with furrowed eyebrows. "Don't you have Wolfsbane tonight?"

Something icy flooded her veins. "Yes."

"Oh. I thought you had to go soon."

"I do." In fact, if she lingered much longer, she'd be late. She hadn't yet decided whether to be early or on time; she didn't know what either choice might entail, and she didn't want to risk communicating something she didn't feel. In truth, she'd hoped Fate would decide for her, or send her to hospital with a sudden malady that prevented her from brewing altogether.

Harry and Ron watched her, blank and expectant looks on their faces, and she cracked.

"Alright! I'll go now. Have a nice lesson, Harry."

Her bag bounced against her side as she went down the stairs, her movements jittery and uncoordinated. She'd brought all her homework to ensure she had something to do while they supervised the potion, and the weight of it pulled her shoulder down.

I can't do this — oh, God, I really can't do this —!

What if he yelled at her? Called her horrible names? What if he hexed her the second she walked in the door, or accused her of — of leading him on, making him look stupid?

She could handle that, probably.

But what if he was quiet and stoic? Or — or threw himself at her feet, overwhelmed by declarations of devotion? What if he tried to kiss her again?

The not knowing was making her completely mad. Standing in front of the laboratory's door, she warred with herself between going in, head held high; or fleeing in shame.

But when the door opened, it all faded to quiet.

Draco jumped, nearly dropping the book in his hands, and when he looked at her, she realised he hadn't expected her to turn up at all. His Adam's apple bobbed; she stepped into the lab and the door shut softly behind her.

With slow, deliberate movements, she put her things on the hook as usual, careful not to disturb the heavy silence which filled the room. Draco was perched on a stool on the far end of the workbench; Hermione placed her roll of parchment and quill at the other end.

"I already added the hare's blood," he said quietly, and she thought his mouth sounded dry.

Hermione nodded in acknowledgement and did not look at him for the rest of the forty-minute period while the Wolfsbane changed colour. Instead, she created a detailed outline for her Potions essay and picked out all the citations she would use, double checking page and paragraph numbers to make sure she got it all right.

It was easy to forget that he was there, barely out of arm's reach, except for when he turned a page or sniffed or shifted on his stool. She'd freeze, like spotted prey, and wouldn't breathe until he'd settled again.

It was painfully slow and dizzyingly fast all at once. When he softly declared that the potion had finally mutated to the correct shade, she didn't know whether it had felt longer or shorter than she'd anticipated.

He set the cauldron aside while she gently swept her homework into her bag. Time had grown heavy and slow, because surely this was when something would happen, if anything did, and though she'd worked out what she wanted to say to him, now that she was here — now that they'd been so quiet, she didn't want to break it, she just wanted to go back to her dorm and convince herself she'd imagined it all —

Draco cleared his throat and the dormant dread she'd been feeling woke up.

Petrified, she waited. He didn't do anything, though she heard the empty space where he wanted to say — something. His silent words echoed across the walls and Hermione wondered what he wanted them to mean.

He sighed quietly. His words were even softer.

"I'm sorry."

It hitched her breath, like his apology had got physically stuck in her windpipe. This was not what she'd expected.

"I thought you wanted it, I just —" He exhaled. "J-just pretend it never happened."

With a swallow, she closed her eyes, glad she had her back to him. Maybe that was why he'd been able to say anything at all. "Fine." I can do that.

Something in the air broke, and Hermione fell back into motion, pulling her cloak from the hook and heaving her heavy bag onto her shoulder. She didn't turn to face him, and he didn't come any closer. She wondered if he would wait for her to leave before he moved again.

She faced the door with the relief and pride of a prisoner being freed. She could go back to her tower now, and speak with Harry about Dumbledore's lesson, and maybe see if Ron had any more Chocolate Frogs lying around.

All the fears dancing around her head for the past twenty-four hours came together in a singular thought, and her voice was cool and clear when she spoke.

"You know," she started, and took a moment to slow her breath, "even if I wanted to be kissed by you, I would like to be asked first."

There, she thought with a surge of relief. That's exactly what I wanted to say.