Harry Potter 1. Chapter 1

_But you better keep moving before you get totally cold_

_And you better start growing up before you get old_

_Totally wicked and equally ace_

"Victorian Ice" British Sea Power

Draco Malfoy was never surprised. In his young life, the only time he could ever remember being truly startled was when he came upon his mother crying to herself in her dressing room one night when he was six. And he'd found that rather funny. Even now he could look back on the event and cackle wickedly, as a well-trained Slytherin should. The first shock of his life hadn't made much of an impression on him and Draco honestly thought of himself as truly impenetrable. He was a master anticipator. He knew precisely what hour of what day the seasons would transition from spring to summer to fall to winter. He knew what he would get for Christmas, that Goyle was gay and the Voldemort would lose. Draco Malfoy had killer instincts about everything. Until her.

Hermione Granger had surprised him, and with no effort, no tears, not even a word. She didn't need to speak to him to render him utterly stunned. The mere sight of her forced his breath into his throat and made his hands sweat and tremble more than before a Quidditch match. A glance at her slim, pale fingers trailing across the mahogany banister as she made her way down to the Great Hall was too much for him. He imagined those fingers entwining with his calloused ones and a sudden jolt made him turn his head away and stare at a portrait of a shepherdess tending her flock.

This being Hogwarts, the portrait stared back.

"Well?" Demanded the little shepherdess, flicking a golden curl over her shoulder. "Why don't you go talk to her?"

A snort was his reply and the little shepherdess rolled her blue eyes at Draco's retreating back as he spun on his heel and raced to the safety of the far end of the Great Hall. It wouldn't do to be caught staring at the Mudblood, especially with Potter and the Weasel swarming round her like bees on honey.

Anonymity was his only consolation. If anything, he'd managed to be even more malevolent towards her since the birth of his powerful crush. The last thing he needed was for anyone to suspect he was softening towards Gryffindor's Princess. Thank the gods no one knew she reduced his insides to jelly whenever he saw her walking down the stairs, or how much he longed to smile at her when she came stumbling into class laden down by books, obviously exhausted from studying. He had a perverse and unfamiliar desire to swipe those heavy textbooks out of her arms and follow her around wherever he went. Follow her to the ends of the earth. He scoffed at himself for his sappy turn of phrase. It was so irritating that _she _of all people, was inspiring him to such a flowery homage! Really, it wasn't as if the girl looked anything to write home about. She'd always been pretty, sure, but never to the point of distraction – at least, Draco's distraction. That all changed upon his first glimpse of her this new school year, a glimpse that in retrospect, foretold of upheaval to come.


	2. Chapter 2

As was his typical Returning-To-Hogwarts Custom, Draco had paused in the door of the Golden Gaggle's compartment on the Hogwart's Express to deliver his annual tidings of harassment to Potter (he'd come to think of himself as an evil Welcome Wagon). And there was Granger, leaning against the wall, her arms blithely folded, eyebrows gracefully arched. Her chocolate hair was shorter and framed her face now and it seemed to Draco that she'd taken to hemming her school skirt a few nearly imperceptible inches higher than the Hogwarts' standard. She looked cooler and more collected than Draco ever remembered seeing her. If he hadn't spent his life reminding her of her impure blood, he could have believed, in that moment, that she was a Slytherin.

He had little time to enjoy the view, however. The sight of her ruby lips curled in ire as she turned the focus of her cool displeasure to him choked in his throat the witty barbs he'd spent the summer perfecting. He was used to being the cause of Granger's irritation, of course. Getting her blood up was one of his great joys in life, besides tormenting Potter. This time was different. Draco was familiar with her anger – the way her face flushed and her eyes flashed at every insult that fell out of her lips. But this vision before him – for she was a vision, elegant and composed as a statue – was all ice, and Merlin, she was scary. Draco was only able to squeeze out a few feeble digs before one sharp look from the impenetrable snow queen before sent him scuttling back to the Slytherin car with his tail between his legs.

He'd immediately put the incident out of his mind, chalking it up to too many Chocolate Cauldrons on a lurchy train and a long summer without the Maxim magazine subscription he had diverted to his Hogwarts dorm room every year (Narcissa Malfoy didn't hold with such smut being delivered to The Manor). But despite the multitude of excuses he fed his ego, Draco was forced to admit that since that day something had shifted in his every contact with Herm – _Granger_. Unusual events started occurring, little things that all added up to one big glaring truth: like it or not, the Mudblood was lodged under his skin and there she would stay.

The Slytherin and Gryffindor tables were, on principal, as far apart from each other in the Great Hall as was physically possible, but Draco could now easily discern Granger's voice and her low, throaty laugh through the din of a Hogwarts evening meal. Her bossiness had once been Draco's favorite excuse for hating her, but lately he found himself unable to stir up the old feelings of annoyance that used to descend when she started spouting off her endless knowledge. He'd even found himself idly wondering what she would say next. Even that unruly hair of hers, his gold standard when it came to insulting her, didn't seem so bad anymore.

What's more, he was powerless to make himself avoid her. It was though he could hone his mind in on her, wherever she was and whatever she might be doing. He found himself mentally matching his daily schedule with hers and manipulating circumstances – he was a Slytherin, after all – so as to see her as much as possible.

Like now. He'd gotten in the habit of positioning himself to watch her descend the staircase to dinner every day. Out of the corner of his eye, he'd glimpse her full thick curls and then take in the rest of her: what she was wearing (she wore more green than anyone else outside of Slytherin, he'd noted with pleasure), what she was carrying (always at least one book), who she was with (either the rest of the Hellish Trio or the Weaselette), the expression on her face. He'd made a game of guessing her mood and found himself to be quite adept at it.

If her hair was up and a quill jabbed fiercely through the mass, she was more often than not in a tiff with Potter, Weasel or both. Sometimes she came down trailing behind several Gryffindor girls as they chatted about the latest hair potions. Granger never partook in these discussions. Tonight, however, her arm was linked through Ginny Weasley's, their heads inclined towards one another. Draco figured they must be having what Pansy and Goyle called Girl Talk.

The She-Weasel was lucky to be a girl, Draco thought savagely as he observed them through narrowed eyes as they giggled and parted at the foot of the stairs. If any unfortunate young man, including Potter or the Weasel, so much as lay a _finger_ on Hermi-Grange-_her_, he'd…well, he wasn't sure yet, but he'd think of something. Something painful, creative and deeply Slytherin that would set an example for any others who might have such designs on the girl he was coming to think of as his own.

Resignedly, Draco willed himself to turn slowly and strut casually to the Slytherin table as though nothing in the world were amiss. and scan the room for the girl again, this time in order to avoid her. A more difficult task than usual as there were plenty of things amiss in the world, his infatuation with Granger being right up there with the stress of being a double agent. Much as Potter and Weasley grated on his nerves and much as he was still convinced Dumbledore was an old lunatic, Draco's decision to switch sides had been one of the easiest of his life. These feelings for Granger were complicating the matter, however. She didn't fully trust him and she had no reason to do so, although this disturbed him to no end. Avoiding her was the easiest thing to do, for the sake of all concerned. He forced himself to remain tethered to the Slytherin common room most evenings to preserve his sanity and her safety. It was much easier to forget about her down in the gloom of the dungeons.


	3. Chapter 3

_All across the Eastern Board_

_Languages were being lost_

_You look so elegantly bored now_

_Totally at ease with it all_

"It Ended On An Oily Stage" British Sea Power

Hermione Granger knew better than to glance deliberately in the platinum figure's direction as she entered the Great Hall. Unfortunately, her eyes did not and needed to be distracted. Quickly. Hermione slid an arm under Ginny's and gripped her elbow tight, bursting into forced laughter at something the girl had said. Ginny gave her an odd look and her gaze slid over to Malfoy just as he turned away and crossed the Hall. Hermione exhaled in relief that he was far away again and Ginny let it go. Now was not the time to push Hermione's buttons.

With relief she spotted Ron and Harry at the Gryffindor table, already piling food on their plates. They didn't look up from stuffing themselves when she joined them. Daintily following their lead, she began to serve herself when a tingling sensation started working up her spine.

She turned slowly, already knowing the source of the prickling pleasure, and was pleasantly unsurprised (know-it-alls do _not_ like surprises) to finding a familiar pair of silver eyes bearing down on her. He often did this at meals. She couldn't be sure if he was even conscious of it, because the only words he ever said to her were insults, usually with a "Mudblood" or two tacked on at the end as an afterthought.

This was an old game for them. Draco would initiate the stare, which never failed to make Hermione squirm, and then their eyes would meet and the two would look intently at each other until the inevitable -

"Oi, Hermione," said Ron with his mouth full, and she whipped around to face her two best friends and her plate of mashed potatoes.

"I've been talking to you for the past five minutes. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she lied glibly, spearing a piece of Christmas turkey with her fork. "Just tired…I've been studying all day. I have this Ancient Runes essay to finish before -"

Ron and Harry rolled their eyes at each other.

"Trust you," Harry said affectionately, between bites, but Hermione thought she spied a subtle glance of relief pass between them.

It was no secret that something had shifted in Hermione over the course of the summer, and it would have taken wild horses to drag from her that she was scared to death at what might happen to her parents during the impending war. For war was inevitable now, it was in the air and the question was merely a matter of when and who would strike the first blow. Only when she was alone with Harry and Ron did she act like the old Hermione; a compelling and confusing mixture of bossy, stubborn and carefree. To the rest of the world she was guarded and hidden behind a wall of frigid poise. Harry and Ron could get behind her structured façade because she had never really shut them out, but she knew the change in her demeanor startled them. Where once she would have roundly chastised Ron for his refusal to support S.P.E.W., she now simply ignored him when he tried to bait her into an argument. And Harry, who thought he could always count on her to mother him, now found himself quite without the voice in his ear nagging him to eat, to go to the hospital wing for his Quidditch bruises, to fully utilize his homework planner. Hermione Granger didn't care about those things anymore. She took care of herself and kept to herself. She kept quiet. An observer might have thought she was afraid that if she raised her voice too loud, she might catch the wrong person's attention.

But it seemed that she had done that anyway.

Draco Malfoy had noticed her, noticed her since the beginning of the school year. She remembered the look in his eyes as she glared him down on the train. Not a wise idea in retrospect, she snorted to herself. Keeping a low profile and pissing off a Slytherin were certainly not mutually amenable. At first she'd be afraid of how he'd exact his revenge, for she knew there would be consequences for humiliating him so in front of his mortal enemies. No one rendered Draco Malfoy speechless with a glare and got away with it for long. She'd held her breath and patiently waited for the bomb to drop. And waited. When he'd started staring at her at dinner, she took it as a warning. Something was coming and she braced herself for impact, but still none came. The suspense was worse than anything else he might have done to her…the looking over her shoulder every time she was alone in the corridors, the fear of shadows in the Owlery, the cheerfulness she forced to cover the worry she harbored for her parents and herself. For Harry and Ron must not know about this. Harry because he had too many other things to think about, he had to save the bloody world, he couldn't be worried about her right now, and Ron because she knew how he'd react. He'd be worried sick about her and cover that up by picking fights with her every minute of the day in order to distract himself from his own fear. And Ron too needed to be operating on all cylinders in the coming months.

The only person Hermione had confided in was McGonagall, who had taken her fears in stride, pursed her lips and assured Hermione that she would take steps to ease her fears. And Hermione believed her but nursed a secret sense of guilt that she was bothering her favorite Professor with personal matters when surely _everyone_ was worried for their parents and families at this horrible time. And on top of that, McGonagall was a key member of the Order whose duties extended far beyond anything Hermione could imagine, and all the Hogwarts Professors were stretched thin, between their teaching duties and their new task of contending with the growing unrest of the Hogwarts student body as the young people struggled with their own allegiances. They were all choosing sides now, no doubt about it. Gryffindor and Slytherin would be the first to step up, but the rest would soon follow. Hermione was under no illusions that she would soon be meeting most of her fellow students on the battlefield and they would not all be on the same side.

Knowing this, Draco's stares took on a deeper meaning. When Harry confided to her and Ron that Draco had turned tail and was acting as double agent for the Order, she breathed a private sigh of relief, thinking that this must surely be the end of his interest in her. Perhaps he'd been trying to signal her and she'd been too daft to see it. But the next day he was back to his old tricks, only now she couldn't resist looking back. What she saw surprised her. His eyes were unguarded. They were deep, pale silver and so different from her own rich chocolate ones that she stared with unbridled fascination until a smile – a real one – curved his lips and she pulled away startled at her uncharacteristic lapse.

They'd had meetings together, the four of them, to discuss the information Draco brought to them about the movements of the Death Eaters and to plan their exit from Hogwarts, for no one could know they were leaving. Draco never offered any information regarding his change of loyalties, and Harry and Ron seemed oddly all right with this. Perhaps they already knew. It would have once incensed her that they were holding information back from her, but now she was strangely grateful for anything that kept her further apart from the complex Slytherin and his steely gaze.

But she continued to look at him, now more than ever.

Ron and Harry had switched to talk about Quidditch now, and it was safe for her to zone out. She had trained her peripheral vision well by this point, and could sweep her gaze over the entire Hall while still keeping up the appearance of being focused on her mashed potatoes. There he was. Draco was talking animatedly to a group of enraptured Slytherins, but he looked up for the briefest of moments when he felt her eyes on him. The electricity between them crackled and then was gone as Draco immediately returned to his story, gesturing wildly to compensate for the attention he'd so briefly allowed to stray.


	4. Chapter 4

Dinner drew to a close and Draco gathered himself for the usual trek back to his common room, where he planned to ensconce himself every evening for the rest of the holidays. He shuddered, pondering the list of woes that could befall him if anyone knew the feelings he harbored for Granger. His father would disown him (and Draco was thoroughly uncomfortable with idea of having to earn his own way in the world like some common citizen) , hell would freeze over and Voldemort would storm the halls of Hogwarts dressed in a fluffy bunny suit and whistling "Rule Brittania."

With an inaudible sigh he took one last look at Granger, resplendent in her usual school uniform and yet elegant as ever. He shook himself out of his reverie with a snort. He sounded like a ponce.

These thoughts carried him out of the Great Hall and up the main staircase. Unfortunately for his master escape plan, he was so wrapped up in himself that he failed to see Hermione slip away just before him and head towards the library. Head down, brow furrowed in concentration, Draco was so focused on getting to the Slytherin common room that he plowed directly into her.

Draco took Ancient Runes, not English Literature, so the significance of the fact that he had slammed face first into exactly what he was trying to avoid was lost on him. Any Muggle student of Draco's age would immediately have filed the situation away for an essay on Irony.

"Malfoy!" Her voice jarred his name into the echoing corridor and brought him up sharp. "What're you doing?" She hissed.

He snapped back. "What do you mean, what am I doing? I was trying to get back to the common room before you so clumsily blocked the way."

He moved to push past her but she stood firm, her eyes filled with rage. Hermione Granger was a studious witch, and a Muggleborn as well. Having been placed in a primary school for gifted youngsters, the irony of the situation was fully present for her, but had long ago grown too boring even for someone of her analytical tendencies. Hermione was in no mood to ruminate; now was the time to act.

"That's not what I meant," she said coolly. "You were staring at me."

Straight communication occurred to Draco as a foreign language. Slytherin Rule #415 stated explicitly that there should always be at least three discernible meanings to every statement uttered by a Slytherin. Slytherin Rule #416 was careful to allow that this was true in every case except for Slytherin Rule #415 (and Slytherin Rule #812, which made clear that under no circumstances should a Slytherin ever, EVER travel economy class). He opened his mouth to snarl at her but her face softened abruptly. "You're bleeding," she said, reaching a hand out to touch his bottom lip, which he had bitten during the collision. She withdrew her hand quickly before it reached his face as though he were a hot stove. Through the surge of pain in his swelling lip, Draco felt a brief flash of disappointment.

Hermione didn't miss a beat. A devious idea had occurred to her as soon as she saw Draco's faced as her hand pulled away. She was terrified, of course, but this could be her only chance to confront him about his strange behavior. _Their_ strange behavior, she amended. It took two to tango. But where to go? If she and Malfoy were to hash this out, they would need absolute privacy. Hermione knew that _any_ position she was caught in with Draco would be considered compromising in Gryffindor's eyes.

"Is there something you want?" she asked quietly. Still, somewhere in her logical thinking brain, Hermione was valiantly trying to convince herself that Draco's staring had something to do with his work for the Order. Perhaps there was something he wanted her to know that Harry and Ron couldn't be privy to right now, for whatever reason. And the mere chance that such a thing was so made it her duty to confront Draco about these episodes and get to the bottom of them. With the prim authority that had made her Head Girl, Hermione raised her eyebrows in an expression that meant "this way," and Draco found himself following her lithe figure through the corridor as though spellbound. A voice in his head, immediately recognizable as his father's, piped up, asking him insistently what he was thinking, taking orders from a Mudblood. This, however, only spurred him on more determinedly. All this Gryffindor straight talk was making him dizzy, however. Draco needed deception, needed complications.

"If you're going to fix this, make it quick," he snarled.

"I don't have to help you, you know," she snapped back.

"You're not, if you hadn't noticed. And what do you know about healing anyway?" Suddenly he was genuinely curious.

Her eyes flashed with anger. "More than you'll ever – " she began, and suddenly the wall on which he had been leaning easily, glowering at her for all he was worth, disappeared and Draco found himself sitting down hard on the stone floor of a room that hadn't been there a split second ago.

At first Hermione thought she had blacked out and hexed Draco into oblivion, which had happened once before when Ron sat on Crookshanks. Gathering her wits, she looked down to see him sprawled on the floor and fought back a giggle. The Room of Requirement – of course it would show up just now, right when she was a half second short of zapping Draco into the next century. It occurred to her that the longer she lingered in the doorway gawking at the fallen ferret, the higher the likelihood that someone would come along and see them together and then Hell would bloody freeze over. And Hogwarts didn't need that. Not right now.

"Come on then," she said, stepping into the room and hauling a bemused Draco up by the arm. After scanning the hallway to make sure no one had seen their messy exodus, she shut the door and secured it with every locking charm and silencing spell she could remember. And the girl was good.

The room was prepared for them, but as usual, it had its own ideas of what constituted "Requirement." An ornate canopy bed draped in red and green velvet was the only piece of furniture. Merry Christmas from the Room of Requirement, thought Hermione dryly. What the bloody hell was she supposed to do with a_ bed_? She blushed to the roots of her hair at the image her rebellious mind helpfully provided.

Her rosy countenance wasn't lost on Draco, who hadn't lost a moment wondering why the Room of Requirement had seen fit to provide them with such sumptuous décor. Thank the gods for the Room of Requirement! Someone up there was clearly on his side. Smirking insolently, he gracefully draped himself across the velvet coverlet and beckoned to her with a pale finger.

"Well, Granger, are you going to be my nurse or not?"

Cursing herself, cursing the RoR and cursing the highly amused Draco above all, she forced herself to approach him and examine the swelling edge of his smirk. Hating herself for blushing, Hermione crossed the floor to him with her head down, muttering under her breath that she wasn't Florence Nightingale. This earned her only a confused stare from Draco, who was tentatively pressing the pads of his fingers to his bleeding lip.

Despite the stinging, Draco was thrilled. He was alone with Granger, far from prying eyes. She was his to do what he would with, and he was quite sure he would, thank you very much. The tremors in her hands and the nervous blush on her face convinced him that, whether she knew it or not, she was quite as susceptible to his charms as any quivering first year.

Her brown eyes peered down at him, full of concern and something more and Draco's stomach dropped. _Fuck_. He had it just as bad as she did – whatever _it_ was. "Stop staring, Granger," he made himself snap. Unfortunately, the snap didn't quite register and the sentence came out as a low, sensual growl.

"I'm not staring," she retorted, abashed.

"Of course not. Hermione Granger would never stare at Draco Malfoy. That's never happened." A sly grin spread over Draco's face as she flushed even more.

"For your information…" she trailed off, seemingly unable to think of something to say. "For your information, it's always you who starts it."

"Pointing fingers now, are we? Look Granger, we can play the blame game all night. And I've noticed you never seem that eager to look away."

Before she could retort, he took hold of the slim wrists that were hovering anxiously around his face and pinned them to her sides. It honestly didn't occur to him that she would try and fight him on this, they'd both been waiting far too long to see what would happen when the stars and the Room of Requirement aligned to bring them alone together. Startled, Hermione tensed and then shivered as his hands ran up her arms, over the fabric of her cloak and then gently clasped her shoulders, pulling her down towards him. She caught her breath and tensed, seeming ready to pull away, but then her eyes met Draco's – those eyes she had been staring into for so long, from such a distance. Now they were inches from hers and they were unfathomably beautiful. Captivated, she let him draw her down onto the bed beside him and draw his arms around her fully. They stayed there for a moment, indulging in the sweet pause that comes before the inevitable, before everything changes forever.

It was Draco who could bear it no more. Catching her chin with the tips of his fingers, her gently drew her lips through the mere inches it took to get to his. Such a short trip, he mused before capturing her rosy mouth completely with his, but he knew they could never go back.

It happened as naturally and easily as dawn follows night. What Draco was unprepared for was the intensity of his own reaction. The kiss was a vivid dream come true. Her lips were soft and sweet and pink and he growled at the shock of them on his own. He lost himself for a moment in the deep drink of her before he had the good sense to begin moving his lips against hers – and to notice that she was kissing him back.

She tasted like nothing he'd ever experienced – a combination of warm, sweet honey and Strawberry Chapstick. He stirred against her and took her deeper into his arms, aware that she must be able to feel his hardness pressing against her. Moaning, she twisted further into his embrace, daring her tongue to dart out and play with his. He breathed in her deeply and the kiss became fully passionate. They were nothing but heat and hands, tongues and moans. The initial gingerness between them melted into something strong and wild and Draco tipped her back on the bed and nestled against her, his tongue teasing her jaw line, her ear lobe, her collarbone and nuzzling even lower. Gasping, Hermione felt her nipples harden at the hint of his breath above them. Reality surged into focus once more and she pulled away from him, panting. She had no idea what she was feeling right now, but one thing was certain: nothing in her life had ever been this strong, this sure.


	5. Chapter 5

Before she had time to think or analyze, his hands were on her again, roaming her body fiercely, demanding that she yield to his caresses. She responded with her own demands and pushed him back onto the suddenly very convenient bed. They moved furtive and hot over the velvet coverlet, exploring every bare inch of skin and then Draco slid his hands underneath her shirt and his cool hands fell feather light on her back.

"Draco," she murmured into his neck.

"Hmmm?"

She tried to gather her thoughts to speak, to ask him what in Merlin's name they were _doing_, clinging together as if for dear life and most importantly how it could possibly feel so right -

"Hsshh, love," he closed his mouth over her earlobe, drawing a gasp from her and effectively stopping all logical thought.

A creak brought them up sharp.

"What are you two doing in here?' Ron demanded with his hands on his hips, looking for all the world like Mrs. Weasley in one of her moods.

The door to the Room of Requirement pushed open, giving Draco and Hermione barely enough time to spring apart and stare at opposite corners of the floor as if suddenly fascinated by the dust bunnies. This being Hogwarts, they were forming colonies. At the moment, they were gathering together to prepare for the hostile takeover of the windowsill.   
Draco froze, any plausible lies he could think of dying on his lips. Luckily, Hermione had not entirely lost her cool head during their passionate kisses.

"Draco was helping me with my Patronus," she lied glibly and behind her, a stunned Draco coughed to hide the smirk that graced his face when he heard her lie for the first time. It was as he had long suspected: her placement in Gryffindor was merely an accident of birth.

Harry looked them both up and down. While the Golden Trio were aware that Draco was a spy for the Order, no one had ever encountered him publicly giving aid to a member of the Light. It was a cute try, but it was obvious she was lying. He'd known her since she was eleven, and seen her lie countless times on his behalf. He knew she looked slightly to the left when she did it. Also, her lips were swollen. He raised an eyebrow, a gesture that spoke more than anything he could have said right then. He knew she was lying and he wasn't going to argue.

"What happened to your face?" Ron asked, noticing Draco's bruised countenance.

"Offensive Spell. We were practicing Blasting Curses," Draco said in a clipped, casual tone that broked no argument.

Harry had seen their staring contests, of course. At first he'd assumed, as Hermione had, that Draco had wanted to get her alone to pass on some piece of information he didn't trust Harry or Ron with. It didn't surprise him that Draco would be looking for chinks in the armor, looking to see who could benefit him the most. Draco would play all of them like instruments until he was sure of their loyalties. It was a deeply Slytherin thing to do and Harry had expected it because he knew something that Draco would never admit to anyone, not even himself. Draco Malfoy was terrified.

This encounter, however, was neither here nor there. It was obvious that whatever they had been doing, it had nothing to do with practicing Offensive Spells. Hermione saw the arch in the eyebrow and knew right away that Harry didn't buy it, but she clung stubbornly to her innocent expression. A tense half second passed. Harry and Ron exhaled and strode into the room.

"I'd make myself scarce if I were you" Harry hissed at the blonde wizard with the swollen lower lip. "The rest of the DA is coming any minute."

That was all Draco needed to hear. His precious anonymity was the only thing keeping him alive at this point. With a terse nod to Potter, he spun on his heel and was gone. He did not look at Hermione, but Harry did. Her composure had dropped. Her face was flushed and her breath was coming rapidly, but her eyes stayed on the dust bunnies as they gathered for battle on the floor.


	6. Chapter 6

_3 months later._

Draco and Hermione had studiously avoided each other ever since that marked day when they had come oh so close to being caught in the most compromising positions of their lives. His pride and her fastidious primness had caused each to repel the other like polar forces and it was a school joke that they could almost always be found that the exact opposite ends of every room. Avoiding one another was not difficult – the Hogwarts beaurocracy ensured that a Gryffindor and a Slytherin had about as much chance of ending up alone in a room together as Snape had of directing the annual spring musical (this year "Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat," with a befuddled Seamus Finnegan displaying a curious natural aptitude for song in the role of Elvis).

What the Hogwarts beauracracy had not counted on – had never even considered – was that a Slytherin and a Gryffindor would have such a hard time keeping their eyes off each other. Hogwarts student body had also become used to this as the days went on, although surprisingly few jokes were made. It was not something anyone wanted to mess with, nor did anyone care to risk the consequences of Draco's wrath or Hermione's reproachful gaze.

Then there was the whole "dark versus light" issue, but that was really sidebar. There were plenty of reasons Draco and Hermione would never work without bringing the whole he-wants-to-kill-every-one-of-your-kind aspect of it. She was generally regarded as a civil and even elegant human being, whereas even the Slytherins avoided Draco like the plague ever since he'd made it very apparent that he was privy to more information than anyone at Hogwarts regarding the activities of the Death Eaters. Slytherins knew when to look out for Number One.

Alone in her bed at night, Hermione had gone over the details of their encounter so many times that by rights they should have been flat and stale in her mind. Yet the images refused to fade into mundane memories and every time she allowed her mind to wander in their direction she got a whirling, soaring feeling in her stomach, then a sinking sensation like an elevator rapidly descending, goose bumps up and down her arms followed by a wave of heat and a strong desire to storm up to him at breakfast and – and…well…slap him. Or kiss him. The one she picked usually depended on the night and what kind of day she'd had.

She wasn't sure now who had initiated the not-talking-not-acknowledging-not-even-insulting one another behavior that they were currently rutted in. It had been tacit and mutual and now it seemed to them the only possible way in which they could co-exist. She still caught him looking at her, but he was much more careful now. She supposed he would be, he was a Death Eater's heir apparent, after all. The thought made her cringe and pull the sheets over her head.

Harry and Ron had never mentioned the encounter again, as though hoping it would go away if they didn't talk about it. And it had, for all intents and purposes. It might as well never have happened. And the thought of that made her groan and throw the sheets off. She'd spent many nights tossing and turning like this before sleep came. Now she was used to casting a Refresh Charm on her face before heading down to breakfast with her usual armload of books.

_A/N: Sorry this has been so long in coming – no excuses! I know this one is short(er) than the others, but I had to get something up here…reviews are loved and appreciated, and constructive criticism even more so!_


	7. Chapter 7

Six Months Earlier

The conversations started high above the clouds. It felt safest up there to the both of them – things were more natural up there, there was room for clear-headedness and straightforward conversation (again, this was unfamiliar territory for Draco, but he was enjoying cautious exploration of the world outside the Slytherin Rulebook).

It started at one of the early matches. Qudittich was still being played because Quidditch. had always been played and likely Qudditch always would be played, no matter who won the impending war. It was safe to say that no one's heart was in the games anymore, however, not even the two Houses with the most emnity between them, who should have been anxious for any opportunity to display their superior prowess on the pitch.

Things were getting too serious now, the world was all too real. The games they played these days were better kept indoors, behind curtains, alone with one's people. Chess in the common room and staring contests at mealtimes. The bright outdoors was starting to look more and more dangerous.

The team captains fared the same as anyone. It was clear that Harry was playing because Harry was expected to play, and Draco was playing because to not play would signal to the world that Harry had outwilled him. Thus gridlocked, each trudged out to the field with a heavy heart.

Unbeknownst to both, Hermione had surrounded each of them with protection spells. Ron was similarly guarded. The rest could fend for themselves, she thought tiredly, wishing it were all over.

When they started the match on a bright fall day to the half-hearted cheers of a distracted crowd, only one of them was hoping for a civil conversation at 500 feet. The other was hoping to do his duties and pack it in for the evening – go back to other plans.

The snitch led the two Seekers through some low-ranging cumulus clouds and suddenly they were hovering face to face above the break in the moist, white fog. Harry never got tired of looking down from his broomstick at the lands spread out beneath him, and Draco knew this and counted on the brief pause he would take when they breached the barrier of the cloud cover. At that moment he struck with a "Silencio" and hooked his broom right ahead of Harry's, blocking out the sky.

"We have to talk," he said, and Harry struggled against the spell and jerked his broom upwards, flying an angry circle around his counterpart and digging for his wand. Draco was faster.

"Truce, Potter," he yelled over the wind, his voice unfamiliar without its classic sneer. "We talk here or we talk down below. And it's a different talk if we do it down there." Something broke inside him as he said this, and his eyes when he looked at Harry were unguarded, vulnerable, blue as the surrounding sky. A twinge of pity became a surge and Harry spun his broom around to meet Draco head on and spat out the word "talk."

"We have to keep busy," Draco said, and they continued to circle and feint as Draco poured out his story, half a mile above the unsuspecting crowd.

He knew things, he said, and Harry had it in him to smirk, even as he inwardly acknowledged the truth in the statement. Draco had called Goyle a poofter for years before Goyle took up with Nott.  
It would begin to rain in half an hour's time, Draco continued. Spring would come late that year and Voldemort would lose. He'd known this since birth but any struggle would have been futile until he was of age. Which had occurred at 8:13 am that morning.

Neither of them ever told anyone about the rest of the conversation. Seven minutes later, Draco descended from the sky, clutching the snitch. Harry followed, looking suspiciously undefeated. Twenty three minutes thence, it began to rain.


	8. Chapter 8

Telling Ron was not easy.

Draco stood in the shadows by the window, breathing in the unfamiliar air of the highest tower at Hogwarts. He felt dizzy and wondered if the altitude was affecting him, but a quick glance at the witch sitting quietly across the room answered his question for him. Her legs stretched idly in front of her and her hair was wild. It was most definitely _not_ the altitude. Draco loosened his tie and watched the Trio hash it out, trying to keep his amusement under wraps. Trying to keep his eyes off Granger, sitting primly on the sofa and studying Ron's chess set intently. He didn't need the added complication. She hadn't said a word since Harry had cleared his throat and introduced his shadowy visitor. Ron hadn't known whether to lunge for his wand or for Draco's throat and wound up face down on the Persian carpet, arms and legs akimbo. Granger hadn't blinked.

Oh Merlin, she wasn't just an added complication, she was _the _complication. Of all the things to be worried about at this moment – his betrayal of thousands of years of careful, pure breeding, the fortune he was certainly losing and the life whose value was steadily decreasing with every minute he spent up here in the high tower with these two nitwits – of all the things to be worried about, he was most concerned that she believe him.

She had been his first thought this morning when his enchanted alarm snake set up a celebratory hiss at 8:13 am, declaring him officially of age. Draco had grinned warily at the alarm snake and then bolted from the dungeons to work out his plan on the Quidditch Pitch. It didn't do to be too near the alarm snake when it got overexcited

At first, Ron was incensed. Then he was confused, then suspicious, then incensed again. Having worked his way through his full emotional spectrum, he finally demanded that Draco prove it. It was then and only then that Hermione looked up from the chess board. She opened her mouth to say something and then quickly closed it again and rose from her seat.

"Excuse me," she said, and the three men followed her with their eyes as she disappeared up the staircase to the girls' dormitories.

"Oh, now you've done it," sighed Ron, but he looked devilishly pleased. A surge of nerves coursed through Draco and he shifted uneasily and avoided Potter's eyes. The fire crackled and Granger re-emerged from the girls' staircase clutching a small crystal vial. She crossed to Harry and whispered something in his ear. A low sound escaped his throat that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle.

"Hermione wants you to take Veritaserum, Draco." Ron snorted with glee and Draco sent him a look that could have shattered glass.

"That's illegal," he spat, and Hermione turned on him with a delicately arched eyebrow and the same icy stare she had directed his way on the Hogwarts Express. The one that had simultaneously frozen him to the core and convinced him that she was the only perfect woman in the world.

"Yes, it is," she said in a cool monotone, and handed him the vial. Potter stood back, away from the action. This was not his fight, for once, Draco mused. Ron was staring into the fire, his fists clenched at his sides, a small smile playing on his lips.

The hell with them. Draco smirked boldly at Hermione, popped the cork from the vial and downed the bitter liquid. When he looked up at her again, all he saw was her retreating form.

"I've got work to do, Harry. I'll see you two at lunch."

Draco stood bewildered, trying not to wretch from the vile taste in his mouth, as Ron wheeled on him and bore him down with questions. As the Veritaserum pounded through his veins he was grateful she was gone. If she'd looked at him any longer with those smooth brown eyes, if she'd asked him any careless questions…

A little Q&A, however foolproof, was not going to be enough to satisfy Ron, Draco knew, but it would go far in assuaging Granger's doubts, even if she wasn't there to hear him explain himself.

"Why did you wait so long?"

"I waited as long as I had to. I came of age this morning. I never have to go home."

Harry looked up at him, shocked.

"You're never going home?"

"Not if I can help it." Draco shuddered at the recollection of the place. Ron looked at him piercingly, responding to the other boy's obvious distaste for his home. True, in the past Ron had proclaimed everything he owned to be rubbish (a statement he now squirmed to recollect, knowing what he knew about the rest of the wide world) but he had to admit to himself that this hardship of Draco's was one of which he was blissfully ignorant.

"You're going to have to go back," Potter said reluctantly, as if the words hurt him. "Just a couple more times. You're going to have to go to Death Eater meetings… maybe even take the Mark."

Ron gasped and Draco's eyes widened but he didn't flinch. Potter was right.

"I'm sorry, Draco," he said, and he meant it. The thought of sending anyone to a home they hated left a heavy sadness in his chest. Not to mention asking Draco to take the Mark so that he could pass them information. The thought was almost unbearable. They would cross that bridge when they came to it. Hermione would know what to do.

Hermione…There was no mistaking the look in Malfoy's eyes at the sight of her. Even on the Express at the beginning of the year, his attraction to her couldn't have been plainer if he'd had it tattooed on his forehead. Harry winced at the thought of tattoos just now and he chalked up Malfoy's obvious attraction to Hermione as another bridge to cross when they came to it. If they came to it.

"Blimey," was all Ron could say, and Harry caught his eye and gave him a wry grin. Then Draco laughed uneasily and the boys drew tentatively together around the fire.

Hermione, sitting statuesque on top of her neatly made bed, was experiencing no such breaking of the ice. She told herself she wasn't interested in hearing Draco's answers to Ron's ponderous questions. Harry trusted the slimy git and that was that. Hermione was long past fighting with Ron or Harry over every little thing, choosing wisely to pick her battles instead. She told herself she wasn't interested in the Slytherin Prince's sob story, when the truth was that she didn't need to hear it. She already knew.

Pansy Parkinson was many things – a conceited bitch, a malicious gossip, a Prefect, a rather accomplished gymnast – but one thing she was not was discreet. Hermione had no idea what the male Hogwarts prefects discussed over the multi-colored soap bubbles, but she reckoned it was nowhere near as interesting as what surfaced when the ladies bathed.

The Gryffindor and Slytherin girls had come to an uneasy truce regarding the use of the delicious, multi-colored taps. After a Quidditch match, girls from both teams sloughed off the mud and sweat of the game while eyeing each other warily. Girls are sensible and the ladies of both teams were generally too tired to get into it with each other after a drawn-out battle on the pitch.

There was one other occasion on which it was deemed safe for ladies from both Houses to occupy the same space, and that was on Hogsmeade mornings. Even if a young lady had no particular reason to look her best, there was something about being cooped up in a castle for weeks on end that made you want to put your best foot forward when you went out and about. So on these days the bathroom was crammed with ladies from all four Houses and no conflict went beyond the occasional catfight over a space at the mirror.

It was on one of these mornings right after the start of school that Hermione had heard all she ever wanted to know about Draco Malfoy's home life. Having bathed and removed herself behind a screen at the far end of the bathroom to dress, Hermione was fighting with her tangled hair when Pansy's familiar whine caught her ear.

"...told me he doesn't want it…there's not much he can do about that, is there? We've been engaged practically since before we were born! His parents won't stand for it if he doesn't."

"I don't know, Pans," came Millicent Bulstrode's doubtful baritone. "I mean, you're right, he obviously doesn't have much choice but to marry you, but are you sure you even want-"

"Of course I'm sure! What is that supposed to mean?"

"What if he turns out like his father?"

"So much the better!"

"I don't mean like his father in terms of wealth and influence…I mean – well, you've heard he beats Narcissa, haven't you?"

"So I have. Everyone knows."

"Well, and there was the rumor going around that she lost a baby because he lost his temper. Some years back."

"Honestly, Millie, if you're going to believe everything you hear – "

"I'm not saying I do. I just…"

Hermione had frozen, her towel clutched to her body. She slowed her breath to short, shallow sips in order to avoid being heard. This was the juiciest gossip to come out of the bathroom since the Patil twins demonstrated the art of French kissing on each other.

"It seems quite a gamble that Draco wouldn't turn out exactly like Lucius, doesn't it? I mean, it's obvious his father beats him too. And I read in Muggle studies that – "

"You're taking Muggle studies?"

"Know your enemy," Millie stammered.

"Hmph."

"Anyway, just watch yourself. A lot of violent things have been done to that kid. We've all seen it. Remember his fifth birthday party?"

Pansy let out a harsh chuckle. "How could I forget? His father beat him black and blue for not getting all five candles out on the first try."

"It doesn't take much to set off a Malfoy. Maybe you should get out while you can. If Draco doesn't want – "

"Draco doesn't know what he wants, Millie. But I do. He's the richest pureblood wizard around and he's mine. If that comes with a few bruises, so be it."

Hermione closed her ears, not wanting to hear more. After her brief encounter with Draco on the Express, her eyes had been following him unwillingly whenever he was in the vicinity. With this new information, she knew she was falling into the age old girl-trap of being fascinated by a tortured soul…and she found she didn't mind so much. Deeply troubled? Tormented? Emotionally unavailable? Bring it on. Hermione may have been the brightest witch of her age, but she was also unequivocally a girl. No matter what Ron thought.

And thus began the staring contests. Him with his Draconian smirk, Hermione's face plastered poker-stiff - they locked in a battle of wills with undefined stakes. Stakes that had seemed low enough until this moment when Hermione, still sitting ramrod straight on her plush red coverlet realized that for better or for worse, Draco was in this with them now.

She stood up suddenly and smoothed her hair. She'd better go downstairs before she missed anything good.


End file.
