Title: Their Secret
Status: Complete – 3 parts.
Rating: M

Summary: Years pass, and something like love grows from just a simple glance and then a million more.

Beta: To both M and M (lool, did anyone else just think of chocolate like I did?) for being the most amazing, patient, and understandable betas in the world. You have helped this story more than you could possibly assume, and…I JUST LOVE YOU BOTH. Thanks to the first M, hahah, for making time in her schedule for this, and… Well I guess that works for the second M, too. Thanks for everything, you spectacular women. [Revised in 2018 – no beta]
Notes: A little short story I wrote for the dmhgficexchange! It's probably one of my favourites now; tell me what you think. UPDATE 2024: I can't believe I'm back to post the rest of this short story… I have changed some of the dialogue, and took out quite a bit of wording that wasn't entirely needed. Happy new year!

Their Secret: One

Fourth-year
December
-

Hermione has never quite gotten used to Draco Malfoy.

Three years of his concentration (fascination) have gone by and she is no closer to understanding what causes him to act the way he does.

The slow burn of his gaze is always present, no longer as awkward as it used to be, but that is hardly an incentive at all when she remembers—late at night and buzzing from nervousness about the future—that he is doing it more often than in previous years.

She recalls arriving at King's Cross just a few months ago; Hermione had not even been two steps onto the train before she'd felt the trepidation that came with someone's glance, and only when she'd caught his eyes with her own had she let the sigh of relief escape her. It's only Malfoy… He'd kept watching, of course, like he usually did, but something about that stare made her blush, and she'd settled on averting her gaze uncomfortably. She had never been so violated (electrified) by his look before, not like that, and she'd written it off as a one-time occurrence. Until just days later he'd done it again. Then again, and again, and again.

Malfoy had started this thing back in their first-year, though she had been largely unfeeling toward it at first, and partial to avoiding it altogether. Only when he'd made it clear that they were enemies–"Filthy, little Mudblood!"–did she feel the tension in his glances, the burn escalating with every moment. Only then did she notice that this wasn't normal, schoolboy curiosity.

It was something else entirely.

She remembers contemplating going to Dumbledore, McGonagall, Harry at times, shaking with fear from will-he-kill-me-or-will-he-not thoughts, but she had stamped down on them with all her willpower and then some. She is supposedly the smartest witch from Muggle descent to attend Hogwarts in generations, and if she can't fix her problems, then she would have no experience at all for—what she learned after only a year of being friends with the Great Harry Potter—a particularly precarious future.

She has come to terms that it simply isn't normal for one to look at another so often, let alone an enemy, and that's not even considering the powerful reaction it creates from her. Merlin, she thinks about it more than she doesn't.

She is still uncertain what his motives are. It is the reason, she tells herself continually, that she allows it to happen at all.

It's surely not because of how she feels (comes alive) under his gaze, and the imminent prospect of how fast that would stop if she did confront him.

Not that it even feels good, of course, but she can't help but notice the blatant difference this year. Rather than his glances a subtle thought in the background, this year he makes her constantly uncomfortable and aware. The sensation is doubled, tripled sometimes, when she stops to think over Harry's Triwizard competition, the reality of what could only be an upcoming war, and the unsettling emotions that follow.

She wants to curse him, several times if she can fit that in, for sending her in such a whirlwind of feelings recently and continuing as if she preferred this to nothing at all. Hermione recalls getting her anger out once, punching him in fact, and she smiles to herself at the thought—a glare had been the only type of look he'd sent her for more than a few weeks, and every time she'd caught sight of one, she'd had to stifle a smile in the crook of her arm.

Sometimes, because she is desperate for the solution, she thinks he might finally approach her, and the thought always makes her hands tremble and her stomach coil into severe knots. However, she immediately dismisses the idea when she recalls that three years have already passed without incident, years in which they haven't once said anything to each other besides insults, and the possibility of wanting to now is next to impossible.

He can't finally want to speak to her after all this time.

She doesn't like to think of that prospect often. Hermione is forced to, sometimes, when she realizes that there could be no other ending to their years of constant staring and awareness of each other—not even an argument to end all arguments.

But then the Yule Ball commences, and what she previously thought true regarding Draco Malfoy is rendered precisely the opposite.

When she walks in, arms locked with Viktor Krum's, the only thing on her mind is Malfoy.

This is not new, not even close to being unusual, but the butterflies in her stomach and the tingles resonating in her hands are, and the sole thought that plagues her is whether he will see her tonight.

Hermione has always been the plain, drab girl and this is the first time she's felt as pretty as her peers.

She can feel his gaze before she even sees him, and her heart feels like it stutters, stops, and comes back to life with a frantic ferocity when she notices that he is with Pansy Parkinson. They are both staring at her, wide-eyed. She isn't sure what she is most confused about; that she cares that he has brought a date or that she is stunned when not even a hint of an insult escapes his lips as she passes fully. His gaze is still on her, steady, but she focuses her attention back on Viktor instead.

In the end, she's more enamored by him than Malfoy…

She argues with Harry, Ron, and it hurts that they can't be happy for her. She has stuck with Harry and Ron ever since the beginning, and every disagreement she's ever had with them has always been for their own good, to keep them alive. They are selfish in their own regard, and she is more than angry at the fact that they had the audacity to call her a traitor, for something as simple as a date.

She had agreed to join Krum for the ball simply because he had asked. She isn't sure if that had given the wrong impression, but she figured that this was the only night she'd be spending in his presence, and thus could decline any of his advances, if even he attempted any.

Viktor finds her, sitting in a corner, hunched over the nearest table, shoulders shaking. She pulls away at his hesitant touch, but revels in the presence he brings with him and appreciates not being alone anymore. He slowly comes closer, filling her up with words and sentiments and she finds herself wrapped in his arms minutes later.

It doesn't feel right for some reason, but she doesn't have anything to compare it to, and so instead stays in his arms, blaming it on the turn of events and nothing else. Later, she will pull back, he will kiss her lightly on the lips, and had she had the time to pull away from that as well, she would have. She bids him goodnight, claiming she had a lovely evening, thanking him over and over again for staying with her during her crying, but that she is all right, and just, thanks, very tired, but thank you, no, she doesn't need to be walked back, either. Yes, she will be fine.

She feels strange, though. She doesn't want Viktor's assurances; she doesn't want his soft touches and glances, or his dances. Hermione wants Harry and Ron to forgive her, to see that she isn't a traitor, but above all else, she yearns for Malfoy's gaze. It burns her, keeps her alive, and fuels her the strength to deal with the monotony of keeping Ron in line, or keeping Harry out of danger, while keeping up with her studies as well.

It is her distraction in a cluster of chaos, of death-sentences, of Harry Potter's fate, and all that comes with it.

This distraction, however, wasn't expected to be waiting for her on the way back to the Gryffindor Tower, ready to pull her arm and then the rest of her behind a tapestry big enough for, perhaps, only one person with a little extra room.

She doesn't expect any of this.

But, she reminds herself, she has never expected anything from Draco Malfoy.

"It's just me, Granger." It is whispered, though it comes out much louder in the silence, and she is immediately a nervous wreck at the sound of his voice. It is dark and she can barely see his outline in the shadow of everything else, but she feels the presence of a body against her. Close. Too (comfortably) close.

She can feel walls and him surround her, but she isn't sure if what is pushing him so close is the constraint of space, or if he has made the decision to overwhelm her simply by his touch or proximity. Grabbing her so ungracefully had left a hold on her right elbow, and a hand steadying her along the waist—this alone causes her breath to catch, because she's never thought he'd want to be within a foot of her, fascination or not.

Hermione can feel the heat of his hands, of his body, and she can't even get past that to think of why he could've possibly brought her here in the first place. After all this time.

"Malfoy?" Their eyes meet, just like so many times before, and her breath catches and the fire builds again inside her, magnified at having him here.

"I saw you earlier," he says, probably by way of explanation. His voice is hard and searching – so unlike how he sounds when he insults Harry. She mulls this over as he asks his next question. "Did that oaf hurt you?"

Oaf? "Victor?"

Malfoy gives a curt nod, his jaw clenching.

Is… she can't believe she is asking herself this… but is Malfoy mad about the possibility of Victor hurting her?

She can't fathom why this would cause him to pull her aside, after all these years.

She swallows, suddenly at a loss for words, because she is sure he is waiting for some type of reply.

Her eyebrows knit together, questioning, and she opens her mouth to speak. "No. Why… " Does it matter? Why wouldn't he want Victor to treat her badly, given how much Malfoy clearly hates her? Instead, she says something more rule-abiding. "What do you need? I have to be back to Gryffindor tower in ten minutes or we might get caught after curfew!" She whispers this out, afraid that someone might overhear them.

This is as much an invitation for Malfoy to keep talking as she was going to give. In another universe, she would have given a terse talking-to about curfews to whomever pulled her aside before promptly racing back to Gryffindor tower without a second thought.

She has thought about Malfoy too much this year to even fathom running away.

"You were crying," he whispers back, fast, almost like he was trying to keep the information contained. "If it was that Durmstrang tosser…" His touch on her elbow tightens infinitesimally.

What? Why would Malfoy care about her feelings?

"You've made me cry before, Malfoy," she says slowly. She has never thought of admitting this to him, not even moments ago, but it is the only thing she can think to say.

He looks away briefly, jaw clenching once more. When he looks back, he catches her eyes, and her breath hitches again from the amount of emotion she sees. Normally, Malfoy was snivelly and had a habit of taunting empty threats or using his parent's reputation for his benefit. Standing in front of her was a boy – nay, young man – who seemed distraught by the idea of someone hurting her. Especially himself.

"I don't mean to, Granger," he says, quietly, looking at her. "You don't understand. Maybe… maybe I can make you understand."

He steps forward, leaving almost no distance between them. She doesn't step back.

This was another invitation, so to speak. If she had felt threatened in any way, she would have cast an Expelliarmus, stepped out of the alcove, and been on her way.

Slowly, he brings a hand up to cup her cheek.

The touch is unexpected, and it is a heartbeat later that she notices she is letting it happen. When she doesn't push his hands away, he quickly wipes away the remnants of her tears, with both hands, then pushes his right hand back down to her waist, fully grabbing hold, a more possessive touch than before.

That's when she realizes – suddenly – her assumptions about him toying with her were so, so incorrect.

She isn't sure about this. Her mind races with all the little moments of Malfoy insulting her, hurtful moments, then focuses on all the glances they've shared over the years. Of the ones most recently – the ones that had her blushing, heart beating, nervous.

The way she felt alive under his eyes.

She looks up resolutely, tingling from his body touching hers, and drags a hand toward him, previously immobile beside her, before pulling him the tiniest bit closer by the hem of his shirt.

He leans forward, then, resting his forehead against her shoulder, breathing toward her neck, and she wraps her arm more firmly around him when his arm snakes around her waist. Hermione can feel her heart beating, faster now than just minutes before, and it is in this moment alone when their bodies align that she realizes this is nothing like how Viktor made her feel.

It was like a dam breaking with how quickly they fell into each other.

But then he speaks and she has to refocus her attention.

"I thought you would have been able to figure it out, at the very least." She shivers from his breath, not used to the overwhelming feeling of a male wrapped around her, against her.

"I…tried, you know. I figured, after second-year, it was to torment me, to make me squirm and bring me down. To make you win, somehow, in a Slytherin way. But you kept…you kept staring…and I didn't have any conclusion to come to because…because it's me. I'm Hermione Granger, best friend of Harry Potter, and why would you want anything to do with me…" She trails off, suddenly understanding, and his hand flexes at her back when she lets out a heavy breath. If his closeness is anything to go by, he wants to be her friend but… "You can't… Is it because of your family? Why now?" she whispers, shrugging her shoulder so she can better look at his face. It is still dark, but it is enough. "What is this?"

She can't hear over the blood rushing in her ears, the adrenaline coursing throughout her body, or the hammering of her heart. Hermione is much too affected by this encounter, especially from the revelation she just discovered, and has to bring a hand up to her head in an attempt to steady her thoughts. She has persuaded herself, over and over again, that it is just a game or a way to take her down. An incredibly affecting way, at that, but she has never deluded herself into believing that it is because he wants to know her, but can't.

He shakes his head, and she can already see this as a bad sign, but she breathes in, out, in an attempt to calm her heartbeat and give her full attention to what he has to say. Three years have gone by without a problem, not even a snag, and she has a sinking feeling that something in his life had caused this.

Her heart is beating too fast at the prospect–she can't wait any longer. "What happened?"

"Things are starting to go wrong," he says, looking away. "With family. I just…it's been three years, Granger. I just wanted to see…if I was right about you."

"Right about me how?"

"Like you said," he whispers softly, turning back to her, "you're Hermione Granger, best friend of Harry Potter, my enemy …." He presses a hand to her hip, grabbing her, and brings her a little closer. "Damn it all to hell, Granger. I can't…explain, and you must know why I can't, just like you don't know why you don't stop it. In the beginning, I thought you really would, but… I can't stop. I won't."

Suddenly she wants to analyze his words, figure it all out and lay it on a table until she can make sense of it. But he doesn't give her that opportunity. Instead, he pulls her closer into him, and she revels once again in his warmth.

She will think of it all later, she decides, when her head isn't clouded by the pleasant feel of him against her.

They stand there for a few more moments—Hermione tucked underneath his chin and his arms wrapped around her; as though he won't ever let go. She is more comfortable and at ease than she ever would have thought, and is stunned into silence by the events taking place in this alcove. They are still teenagers, young in their own minds and bodies, but this feels right (unlike Viktor) and she wants to stay here for more than just tonight.

She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, thoughtful. Though he has not stopped himself from looking her way when he can, it does not shadow the reality that he has insulted her for the better part of all their encounters, or that she is more acquainted with his sneer over his stare.

And really, he has been terribly rude all these years.

Hermione hurts more than she wants to admit when he spits her name, her heritage, her faults. She's cried herself to sleep an innumerable amount, and shed tears in the cubicles of several bathrooms, but it has only developed into a bigger problem with how well he has learned her habits. Coupled with the deep concentration he has set on her as of late, emotions mingle and explode before her, confusing her beyond anything she's ever felt before.

But having him stand before her halts her from persuading herself, over and over again, of things she has known for a while now. That, really, she can't find him annoying because she lets it happen, and she can't hate his glances because she returns them as often as she can, and thinks about them for longer than she should before she sleeps.

"I have to go," he whispers.

Not yet, she thinks. She doesn't even care about the curfew.

Slowly, he begins untangling his hands from around her, pulling back just the slightest. Hermione lets him, feeling the loss of heat when he pulls away from her. She understands (it's over) and steps back, wrapping her cardigan tightly around her. Regretting the loss of him already. Her legs feel the breeze drafting into the alcove, but she has not realized until now.

She sighs heavily and is regarded with silence as he steps as far as he can away. Hermione opens her mouth, intent on saying a parting word, but she can't think of anything succinct to say, or to summarize what she feels inside. Her emotions are a mess, if only because an hour ago she had felt little more than contempt toward him, and in less than thirty minutes, her view has turned around entirely.

Stepping toward the exit, she's not at all surprised to feel his hand enclose her arm, easily turning her attention back to him.

"I won't be able to see you again after this."

"I know," she whispers. She isn't sure what is going on, how this could have happened so quickly, but she already feels close to tears with the prospect of not being able to see him ever, like this.

"Until after."

After tonight. After leaving Hogwarts. She isn't sure, but she turns around and runs as fast as she can back to the Gryffindor Tower, her thoughts flying and erratic.

If anything, his indication that they can't see each other only makes her more determined to get him to crack, to come to her again, because the minutes he'd spent with her had been thrilling.