We learned the sea

Gravity[/SIZE]

Chapter 5

Draco sighed and looked into the mirror. He looked tired; he felt tired. He was amazed at how worn out he could be from doing so much nothing. He still worked, still socialized when required for his company, still organized his books … Not much had changed over the last couple of months. They’d simply passed, barely noticed or celebrated, save the changing of autumn to winter.

It was cold outside. The heart of winter swirled around his house, piling higher and higher in white clumps. It was a magical time, to be sure, even for those who had no wands. The sight of those tiny flakes falling slowly was enough to put smiles on the faces of children and adults alike. It warmed even his heart, if only a little. His heart was especially frozen this winter, a chunk of ice so cold that he felt constantly chilly, even when sitting in front of a roaring fire.

He took a handful of gel and ran his hand once through his hair, letting it fall naturally. It ended up looking messy, but purposefully messy, perfect. Then he examined what he was wearing, making sure no wrinkles had appeared since he’d checked ten minutes ago. He wore sharp black pants and a long-sleeved, white button-down shirt, cuffs upturned, under a black, v-neck sweater. Black shoes and belt completed the look. He rarely cared how he looked—he wasn’t out to impress anyone—but he’d been raised to always look his best and it was one of his few life-long habits that he hadn’t needed to break.

Draco was not anxious for his evening to begin. He would be seeing Hermione for the first time since the ‘incident’ at the amusement park. What had started as a strange spat had turned into an even more bizarre standoff, through no specific action by either of them. Draco thought the lack of action was at the core of the problem.

He saw no reason to attempt to speak with her until she came to her senses and apologized. After all, he had not done anything wrong; she had been the one who had gotten upset and cancelled their plans.

Hermione, for her part, seemed to be suffering under the delusion that he had been in the wrong, and that he needed to apologize. Ron had hinted at the idea in a very round-about way a few weeks earlier, the first and last time he or Harry had brought up the rift between their two friends. Draco had assured them that he had no intention of apologizing and if that was what Hermione was waiting for, then they might as well get used to the idea of very uncomfortable social gatherings where he and Hermione were involved. Draco had no intention of giving up his friendships with Harry and Ron just because she was mad at him.

They had managed to completely steer clear of each other in the months since, but tonight there would be no way to avoid her. Draco was nervous about seeing her again. He had managed to push her to the periphery of his thoughts over the last few weeks and he truly was not sure how he would feel upon seeing her now. Part of him hoped he would be over her, though he didn’t have much expectation of it happening. Perhaps she would have come to her senses, would finally apologize, and they would have a pleasant evening. Also very unlikely.

Draco decided he would be civil if they were required to interact. He left the bathroom and went downstairs. Before he had time to procrastinate further, he grabbed his best bottle of wine from the kitchen and Disapparated.

The address for the party had been for somewhere in Wiltshire, where he’d grown up, so Draco wasn’t at all surprised to find himself standing outside a palatial estate home. As he surveyed the front lawn and façade, he smiled. It was exactly the kind of place he would expect to find his friend.

With only the slightest hesitation and a fleeting thought that he could still leave, Draco knocked on the front door.

After a few moments, the door opened, revealing a very excited Pansy Parkinson.

“Draco!” she squealed, flinging her arms around him. When she let go of him, she was still beaming. “Oh, I’m so glad you came!”

“Didn’t I say I would?” he asked with a smile. “But Pansy … opening your own doors? What’s got into you?”

“I knew it would be you, silly,” she said, taking his arm in hers and closing the door behind him. “Besides, no house elves. It’s almost a requirement with Ron—not that I mind, I assure you. Something to do with Hermione, I think …” She trailed off, then looked horrified. “Oh, Draco! I’m sorry! I forgot I’m not supposed to talk about her!”

“Why? I never said that,” Draco replied, confused.

“No, you didn’t, but you get this look on your face whenever you hear her name, and every time I tell myself I’m not going to mention her.”

He didn’t like to hear that his reaction was so visible to anyone paying attention. “Forget it, okay?”

Pansy bit her lip and nodded.

Draco continued. “She had a ‘Save the House Elves from Unjust Enslavement and Overwork and Underpay’ campaign in school. Don’t you remember?”

“Er … vaguely,” Pansy said.

Draco knew she was lying; he hadn’t even thought about S.P.E.W., despite ridiculing and mocking it back in school, until Hermione had brought it up one night.

“Anyway, I’m glad you came.” Pansy led him through the foyer and toward the main dining hall. “I was worried you had changed your mind, but when I heard that someone was at the door, I checked the clock. Forty-seven minutes late, as usual.”

Draco chuckled. “You know me too well.”

Pansy scoffed. “Everyone knows. No one expects you on time, I hope you realize. You should show up somewhere early—people might die of shock.”

He snorted. “Ha, ha. Deliriously funny as usual, Pansy. Here, this is for you,” he said, handing her the bottle he’d brought.

She examined it. “Merlin, Draco! This is really good stuff!”

“Only the best for you.”

She stopped in the middle of the main hall. “Well, what do you think? Of the house, I mean. It’s nothing like what you’re used to, but I like it. A lot.”

Draco chuckled. “You should come by sometime. Where I live now, anyway. You’ll think you’ve stepped into a different dimension.”

“Oh?” She regarded him curiously. “Ron did mention something about the place … It’s smaller than the Manor, right?”

“I believe Ginny called it a cottage.”

“A cottage? Since when does Draco Malfoy live in a cottage?”

He shrugged. “Since he doesn’t care about appearances or putting on airs anymore and has learned that obsession over things can only be a burden, leading to overwork and neglect of family and ultimately unhappiness.” He glanced at Pansy and smirked at her incredulous look. “Too much?” he asked.

She huffed. “Only a little. Anyway, you’re avoiding the question. Even though you may not live in your Manor, you didgrow up there and have exquisite taste.” She indicated the wine, then his shirt and shoes.

Draco sighed and looked around, recognizing immediately the high quality of everything around him. The paintings, the carpets, the ornaments—all of it screamed lavish and priceless. Add to that the festive holiday décor, and it was the very picture of high society England in winter.

“It’s exquisite, Pansy. You’ve done an excellent job.”

She preened. “Thank you.”

“For the record, I should mention that dressing oneself well does not necessarily carry over into dressing one’s home accordingly.”

She rolled her eyes.

They continued their walk and Draco felt increasingly uneasy with each step. The house was too much like the one he’d grown up in. It had the same oppressive, autocratic feel to it, the kind that had once made him feel as if the vase in the second floor library was worth more than he was. He’d left for a reason. He didn’t need it; didn’t want it. Not only did all the trappings of wealth remind him of his childhood and all that went with it, but it was a glaring reminder of what stratification in a society can lead to: hate, destruction, and death.

He had learned in the war that he needed very little in his life, and he liked it that way. He was content.

Pansy had relocated to England a few months after she had started dating Ron. She claimed she wanted to be closer to family and familiar things—Draco included—but he knew better. She was secretly wishing and hoping things between her and Ron would progress to that ultimate end—rings and shared names. The idea left a hollow pit in Draco’s stomach, and he was sure most of it was because the girl he had grown up with had finally found someone incredibly special. Perhaps the other part was because he’d found someone that special too, only it was impossible. Hermione was… someone he hoped he’d know for the rest of his life, but he would never call her anything more than friend.

An involuntary shiver ran through him because he wasn’t sure she would even consider him a friend anymore. He hadn’t seen Hermione at all since the park. It grew both easier and harder to deal with as time passed. But there was this constant nagging in his mind that screamed, this isn’t fair! He’d never had someone that really understood him before, and she had pulled herself away from him. It had felt like pulling a serrated knife out of a stab wound. It left him bleeding. Profusely. As though she’d severed a major artery.

He could have gone to her, tried to mend the rift, but she was the one who needed to make amends. He had a vast amount of patience when it came to preserving his sense of pride and believed he could easily outlast her.

Just outside the drawing room, Pansy leaned over to whisper in his ear. “It’s a rental,” she said, eyes bright with excitement.

He looked at her and slowly smiled. “Oh? Are you expecting to take up permanent residence elsewhere?”

“You never know,” she said evasively.

The drawing room was also decorated fantastically for the festivities. Fairy lights, brightly colored balls, and flowers were on every surface, strung everywhere, but tastefully. Red, green, gold and silver adornments were everywhere, and live trees decorated top to bottom with sparkling ornaments in every room.

“Hors d’Oeuvres and drinks in here. Then dinner in fifteen minutes in the ballroom. Okay?”

“And after that?”

“Dancing, of course,” she said.

Draco suppressed a groan.

She gave him a pointed look. “And you must stay until midnight. It’s Christmas Eve, after all, and you needn’t be alone for Christmas. You can stay the night here, if you want, or come to the Burrow. I’m going; surely you’ve been invited …”

“Yes,” he mumbled, suddenly finding that the pattern on the tapestry hanging beside the door fascinating.

“Well, think about it.” She led him into the room and left to play the role of hostess. He went to the bar and ordered the first of what he predicted would be many drinks. Then he saw Ron talking with some people he didn’t know and went to join him.

“Draco!” called Ron when he approached.

They shook hands, and Ron proceeded to introduce him to two Quidditch teammates. Just as the conversation was turning away from their victory the night before, the crowd hushed as if a flashing sign had demanded, “Silence!”

All heads turned toward the door and in walked—who elsecould hush a crowd like that—Harry and Ginny Potter. Draco thought Ginny looked especially lovely in a lavender dress, a bit flushed, and appearing very much in love with the wizard on her arm.

Harry gave a reluctant wave and Ginny leaned over to whisper to him. He searched the room and his eyes met Draco’s. Then Harry nodded and Ginny left his side. Harry walked toward him and Ron, but Draco’s eyes were on Ginny. He watched as she made her way through the room until she found one of the twins, standing next to a girl in a dark blue dress. His heart recognized her before his brain and started beating louder, so he squinted and tilted his head slightly; he swallowed hard.

The girl was beautiful … and she was Hermione. Draco hadn’t been prepared for that. He knew all along that Hermione was attractive in her own way. When the wind blew her large curls around her face, or when the sunlight hit her eyes, lighting up the flecks of gold in them. Or when she smiled at him when she figured out one of his patterns. Or laughed at something he said. Or, just laughed. Here she was now, simply breathtaking.

Draco watched as Ginny spoke to her brother and her friend. Hermione squealed and threw her arms around Ginny, and the twin smiled at his sister, and then looked in Draco’sdirection. The twin started walking toward where he, Harry and Ron were standing; Hermione stayed with Ginny.

“Harry, mate,” said Fred—Draco recognized him now—shaking his hand firmly. “Congratulations!”

Draco looked at Ron, who shrugged, then at Harry, who was happy, very, very happy.

Fred continued. “The first little Potter. That’s something, isn’t it?”

Draco’s eyes widened and he opened his mouth to join the others in congratulating his friend when Ginny and Hermione walked up, distracting him. Draco stared at her, but everyone was so caught up in Harry and Ginny’s news that no one took notice of him. After a few moments, during which he caught snippets of conversation (“just two months along…July, we think…yes, Harry was born in July…”), she turned to look at him and smiled. He felt his heart rate quicken and tried to say something, but before he could force words out, she’d turned back to Ginny.

Then Draco felt out of place. Ridiculouslyout of place. He scanned the room for Pansy and went to her.

“Ginny’s pregnant,” he told her. It was the wrong thing to say if he’d been hoping for company. Pansy squealed and ran over to the group. Well, so much for someone to talk to. He went to the bar and ordered his second drink.

“Firewhiskey, please,” came a soft voice beside him. He looked down and his eyes fell on a cute witch with very dark brown hair, done up in curls on her head. She wore a slightly revealing red dress, and she gave him a sly smile.

Draco took his drink and nodded to her.

“Kara Wheatley,” said the girl, extending her hand.

“Draco Malfoy,” he said, shaking it.

“I know. Probably everyone knows who you are.”

His features darkened and he scowled.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to offend. It’s just true, is all. You’re famous.”

He cringed inwardly; he knew it would be a long time before his name and misdeeds faded from people’s minds. “It’s nice to meet you, Kara,” he said, cordiality winning out over a biting remark.

“Likewise.”

Draco studied the woman in front of him while they exchanged small talk. She was a few inches taller than Hermione, and thinner. She had an exotic allure that was entirely different from Hermione’s innocent beauty. Kara’s eyes were almost black, and he saw mystery and danger in them; Hermione’s eyes were soft, warm, and caring.

Draco almost dropped his glass when he realized he’d just compared everything about her with Hermione—and then concluded that Hermione was superior in every way. There was a part of him that was able to declare Kara the more beautiful witch, and by far. But the other part, the part that filtered everything through how he feltabout Hermione, saw things differently. And she then won by a landslide.

“Oh, good, Draco. I found you.” Pansy’s arm snaked into his. “Excuse us, Kara,” she said, practically dragging Draco away.

“Pansy, what’s the matter?” he said, once they finally came to a halt in the hallway. She pushed him into a large closet and shut the door securely behind her. “Uh, Pansy? Remember Ron? You really like him, and I’m a bit past shagging in coat closets.”

“Oh, shut up. I’m not here to try and seduce you. Besides, I know where your heart rests.” He glared at her. Pansy’s face softened. “I’m so, so sorry, Draco. I honestly had no idea. I would’ve warned you, you must believe me.”

“What are you on about, Pansy?”

Pansy gave him a pitying expression. “It’s Hermione. She’s with Fred Weasley.”

Draco’s entire body reacted. His head went thick and it was hard to think. There was a rushing sound in his ears, and he was starting to see spots. His stomach was about to return his lunch, and his heart was screaming at him for daring to care.

“Fred? Weasley?” he managed to croak.

Pansy nodded sympathetically. “I’m sorry. But I didn’t want you to find out from anyone else.”

He nodded, dazed.

“Want me to stay?” she asked.

“No, go on. Dinner is soon. It’s your party.”

“Want me to help you with this? Maybe, Kara?”

He must have nodded then too, because she smirked and left him alone.

So. Thisis howthat feels. Well, if that didn’t bugger all? Of course, he knew the feeling of the world around him crashing into dust around him, and that was how this felt. What did he feel for the girl if she could make him feel like this like all the birds stopped singing, the flowers died, the wind died, and the sun was suddenly two inches closer to the earth? He was burning alive. And freezing. And it was awful. How could he have let things get thisout of hand? He hadn’t known the full strength of his feelings for Hermione until now.

Their intensity had him reeling. When did this even happen He hadn’t really talked to her in months. Not since the park. Sure, he had thought about her a lot, and could even imagine what she’d say in certain situations. Could almost hearher saying it. Truth was—and he was forced to admit it now—he missed her. Missed their crazy outings, her righteous indignation, her easy laugh, her captivating smile, their heated debates. Essentially, he missed everything about her. He missed her.

He groaned and sank further into the closet. Time passed though he wasn’t aware of it. He berated himself repeatedly for falling for Hermione and tried to belittle his feelings, hoping he could shame them away. It didn’t work; in the end he could only think about their time together and wanted to beat his head against the wall until all the feelings went away.

Hermione … and Fred. He quickly secured in his mind the last day he had been with Hermione. October then tenth. She had never mentioned Fred, not even in passing. Although neither of them ever discussed anything remotely approaching the subject of dating, surely she wouldn’t have devoted all of her free time to Draco if there had already been a Hermione and Fred. Or even the hint of a Hermione and anyone. In a little over two month’s time, she had started seeing someone. Which could only mean … exactly what Draco had always known: Hermione was smart. There would never be a ‘them.’ And he was completely buggered for it.

Pansy came looking for him.

“Draco? You still here?” she whisper-hissed.

“Yes,” he muttered.

“Come out. Dinner’s been served and you’re missing it. Besides it’s not very Malfoy of you to hide in a closet.”

“Okay, coming.” He dragged himself out of the small room, straightened his robes, plastered a look of indifference on his face and followed Pansy. At least he’d had a lot of experience with pretending he didn’t care.

“Oh, and you’re sitting with Kara. And I told her to act like you two had been on a couple of dates. You know, for your ego.”

He rolled his eyes. “Wonderful, Pansy.”

They entered a long dining hall and Pansy led him to his seat. He paled when he saw he was also at a table with Hermione and Fred. He turned to Pansy, but the hard glare in her eyes kept his mouth shut.

His seat was directly opposite Fred’s. Bloody brilliant.

Kara was indeed next to his empty seat, and completing the eight-person table were Harry and Ginny, plus Neville and Luna. He was stunned to see the latter two there, and together. Ron must have invited them.

“Sorry he’s late, Kara, I needed him to help me with something,” said Pansy. Draco inwardly cringed.

Kara smiled at him, her eyes full of desire. “Oh, it’s okay, Pansy. I’ll punish him later,” she said with a wink for him.

He saw Hermione’s jaw drop, and felt infinitesimally better. He was still torn though. Pansy had recruited Kara to play his date, and she was quite the little vixen. And what she’d said reminded him of so many girls he’d met, who all wanted just one thing. But he didn’t want that anymore. He wanted what Harry and Ginny had.

However, after all Hermione had put him through—ditching him with the concert, completely ignoring him for months, and then…Fred—maybe he didn’t care what she thought. Had she got it into her head that he was something he wasn’t: that he was just like Harry and Ron? That he was a nice, friendly, do-gooder? That he didn’t still have all those characteristics which had landed him in Slytherin? If so, she was sorely mistaken. He’d exercise those muscles now and enjoy her stunned reaction. It would serve her right. So he smirked, and put his arm around Kara.

“Like last time?” he said.

“If you’re very bad,” she said, putting a hand on his arm and pulling him toward her. Then she whispered, “Or very good,” so loudly that it wasn’t at all a whisper.

Draco grinned and reached for his glass of water. Fred, Harry, Ginny and Neville were all gaping at him. Hermione was adjusting and readjusting the napkin on her lap and Luna was staring into space. As usual.

Draco smirked at Kara once more, then adjusted in his seat to assume a perfect posture. He picked up the menu and said lightly, “I’ll have the fish.”

ooo

The meal was excruciating. Kara played her role as his date far more enthusiastically than he’d anticipated. It was as though she weren’t playing at all. And Draco … he was stunned by her boldness, but he couldn’t let it show. After all, he was supposed to have dated this woman. He flirted with her, matched her, word for word, look for look, touch for touch. This was one of Draco’s skills, after all. Little used, yes; despised, true; but a finely-honed skill nonetheless.

Draco was relieved when the conclusion of dinner was announced. He’d sworn never to use these skills to wound again, and when he saw the look on Hermione’s face halfway through dinner, he’d felt sick at his stomach. And he was pretty sure he’d lost all of Harry’s respect.

He was anxious to get away from Kara. As dinner progressed, he became further convinced that she was just like many of the guests his father had entertained—spoiled, selfish, arrogant, and likely interested in one…or two… things: his money and/or the rumors about his proficiency in the bedroom. Not exactly for the long walks on the beach and slow-dancing kind of thing.

It grated on his nerves so much so that when he finally was able to leave the table, he stood noisily, scraping his chair across the floor and storming away, wondering how he’d ever found her attractive in the first place. He felt low—lower than low. Like he could never scrub himself clean. And he certainly never wanted to set eyes on her again.

When the guests were led to the ballroom, Draco stayed against the walls, near the bar. Halfway through the second dance, someone interrupted his third Firewhiskey.

“Oi! Draco!” It was Ron. Ron, who had obviously not spoken to Harry, Ginny, or Hermione, evidenced by the fact that he was smiling as he approached. “Have you danced yet?”

“Uh, no.”

“Why not?” Ron ordered himself a butterbeer and stood beside Draco, sipping and watching the crowd.

“As a general rule, I don’t dance,” he replied bitterly, watching Fred and Hermione moving smoothly across the dance floor. Fred Weasley. Draco had thought about him all through dinner. He was smart, highly successful, and rich—all of which Draco was too. However, Fred was also a Weasley, and therefore generally good-natured, friendly, and he smiled. A lot. Things that could notbe said about Draco. And, knowing he owned a joke shop meant that he could probably make her laugh. Draco ground his teeth at the thought. He was supposed to be the one who made her laugh. Jealousy bubbled unchecked inside him.

“Nonsense, Malfoy. You danced fourth year.”

“Once. Because Pansy threatened to stab me with her stiletto.”

“Still. You should. It would make Pansy happy; she thinks you’re over her, sulking in the corner.”

“I am,” he muttered under his breath.

“What?” Ron asked.

“Have you talked to Harry lately?” Draco asked, skeptical.

“Yeah. Said you were a giant prat at dinner. Not that it’s surprising to see those old, half-forgotten traits resurface.”

He glared at Ron. “Sod off.”

Ron laughed. “Come on, Draco. We don’t like you because you’re a giant cuddly teddy bear. Now that I think about it … don’t ask me to try and say why we like you, all right?”

“I’m always good for a sarcastic quip or to pick up the tab when we go out.”

“That must be the reason,” said Ron. “So … what exactly happened at dinner?

“I … was an idiot.”

“Must’ve done something unusual; Harry never gets annoyed when you’re an idiot …” Ron’s eyes went wide. “Wait! Did you sit at Hermione’s table?”

“Yes,” Draco answered warily. It would appear that Harry had not told Ron the specifics of the dinner atmosphere, but he didn’t want Ron poking around at the topic of Hermione.

“Was it Fred? Did he provoke you? He’s crazy jealous of you, you know. Hates it when Hermione mentions you.”

“She talks about me?” he asked, stunned. Though, really, it was almost worse to hear that she talked about him when she wouldn’t talk to him.

“Yeah, sometimes. Although … Harry would’ve said if Fred had been involved, what with the history between you and Hermione’s.”

“We don’t have history,” Draco ground out.

Ron rolled his eyes. “That’s right. How could I forget? You two just spent four or five months constantly in each other’s presence. Did you get jealous at seeing Hermione with Fred? That must have been it!” Ron looked as though he had figured out the cure for world hunger. “You were jealous, and said something to or about Fred that Harry didn’t like!”

“I barely said two words to your brother. And I was not jealous.” He put all the venom, all the lethal bite he could into his response and gave Ron a fierce glare. Surely that would at least stop the questions about Hermione.

It worked; Ron backed a few feet from Draco and winced as though Draco had taken a swing at him. “Right. Course you weren’t.” Ron didn’t buy Draco’s lie, but that didn’t matter. “Then … what?”

Draco scowled. “Let’s just say … I did something I swore I’d never do again.”

Ron patted him on the back. “Hey, mate. We all mess up. Just do better next time.”

“I don’t want there to b be /b a next time.” He didn’t want to spend his evenings in pointless flirtation, he didn’t want a string of one-night stands, or meaningless shags … He had been through those motions too much already. He wanted … I Bugger. /I He needed another drink.

Ron was spared the duty of finding something useful and meaningful to say to Draco’s unusual admission of fault by Pansy, who pulled him onto the dance floor. She also tried half-heartedly to convince Draco to dance.

Naturally, he declined, and resumed drinking and glaring at Fred Weasley.

Three songs later, Kara approached him. It must have been all the spirits he had imbibed that prevented him from noticing her until it was too late. “Draco, dance with me,” she said, as though it was more of a command than a question.

He looked at her incredulously. Hadn’t she noticed his growing repulsion during dinner, and how he’d practically run away from her? Obviously not.

“Come on,” she laughed. “I’m not that bad once you get to know me.” Her eyes twinkled darkly, and Draco decided she probably was that bad.

“No, thanks.”

“Draco Malfoy.” The ethereal Luna Lovegood had appeared next to Kara.

He’d never in his life been relieved to see Luna, until now. “Yes?”

“I have noticed that you have not yet been on the dance floor,” she said airily.

“Excellent observation, Luna. You’re right.” Draco looked at her intently, as though they were having the most interesting conversation.

“I’m trying to convince him to change that,” said Kara, glancing uncertainly at Luna. Draco enjoyed the thought that perhaps Kara was beginning to doubt her hold on him; Luna could be very pretty when she tried, as she had tonight.

Luna turned to look at her and cocked her head. “Are you still here?”

Draco nearly spat out the drink he’d just taken. It had not taken him long to discover that Luna was more perceptive than he had ever imagined. If Kara had not noticed his growing reticence during dinner, Luna had, and she seemed to have decided that she was on Draco’s side.

Kara looked affronted. “Yes, actually, I was here first.”

“I see. I want the unflappable Draco Malfoy to dance with me.” She turned back to him, dismissing Kara with her body language. “So. Which will it be?”

He was slightly caught off guard. Luna or Kara? Well, it was an obvious choice, but still—Luna? That was unexpected but he appreciated her support nonetheless. Dancing with her was better than having a conversation with Kara or getting progressively more drunk while glaring at redheads.

“Luna. One dance.”

Kara glared at them, licked her lips at Draco, and said, “When you get bored, come find me.”

Luna seemed to float next to him as he led her to the dance floor and took her in his arms. He almost instantly regretted going against his gut, even if it got him away from Kara. The relief was only fleeting; he didn’t dance. He felt surrounded and pressed upon; people were bumping into him, and touchinghim. She was a decent dance partner, but she barely seemed to pay him any attention, which was a little annoying. She seemed to be looking for something or someone. Not that he wanted to make small talk, but still. It was strange. But then, it was Luna Strange was her thing.

The song seemed to go for hours and Draco was getting anxious. He wanted to get off the floor, and was about to excuse himself from Luna when two things happened simultaneously.

First, he heard someone say “Ow!” very loudly and very nearby. Second, someone bumped into him, hard. He turned to scold the person, but his words caught in his throat when he saw that the person who had bumped into him was Hermione. And judging by the look on her face, she was also the person who’d said ‘ow’.

Draco glanced around now that he and Luna had stopped dancing to notice that Neville had been both Hermione’s dance partner and the cause of her distress.

Hermione’s face was twisted in pain and she didn’t even look at the person she’d run into—namely, him.

“I—I’m sorry, Hermione,” stuttered Neville. “Do you need help?”

Draco looked around—no one, especially not Fred,seemed to have noticed what happened, but then Luna had steered them to one side of the large room.

“No,” she said quickly, putting her hand up to ward him off. “I’m fine.” She tried to walk, and grimaced when she put weight on her right foot. She took another tentative step toward the edge of the floor and her knees buckled, causing her to stumble. Draco caught her, and swept her into his arms in one fluid motion.

“Uhm, Draco? Should I get help?” Neville asked, looking completely horrified at what he’d done.

“No need,” Draco said shortly.

“Should we come?” he offered.

“I’ll take care of her,” he replied without looking at Hermione; though he could feel her burning, inquisitive gaze on him as he quickly carried her into an empty side room.

She didn’t say a word, but she also didn’t protest his ministrations. She only put her arms around his neck to keep from being jostled.

Draco’s heart was pounding, and he was pretty sure she could feel it. She had never been this close, and oh Merlin, she smelled like perfection. Her hair was bouncing on his shoulder and with every fourth step it brushed his face. It was the softest thing he’d ever felt. And where the skin of her arms touched the skin of his neck, he felt fire.

Gently he set her in a chair and he heard a sharp intake of air. He looked at Hermione finally, and she was biting her lip, looking down at her foot. She looked up at him and for a moment said nothing, her eyes a raging squall of mixed emotions. Then her features darkened, and she looked away.

“Are you okay?” he asked with concern, though it was a stupid question.

“No, I’m not bloody okay,” she sniffed. “Remember the part where you carried me in here?”

Oh, she was not a happy witch.

“What hurts?”

She gaped at him, incredulous. “My arm. What do you think?” She leaned down to look at her foot and started to take her shoe off, but one touch caused her to gasp in pain.

“Bad question. How does it hurt?”

“Like someone hit my foot with a bat as hard as he could.”

Draco bent down in front of her and examined the shoe; it was black, pointy, and tall. It was ridiculous how women insisted on wearing things that could serve as a torture device in a pinch. He’d once seen his aunt use it to good effect. He gingerly touched the tip and Hermione slapped his hand.

“Ow,” she said, scowling at him. “Don’t.”

“The shoe needs to come off so I can look at it.”

She tried again, but the pain was too much, and she was unsuccessful at pulling the shoe from her foot. Tears welled up in the corners of her eyes, and Draco knew she must be in tremendous pain; he’d never seen her cry except in the most severe situations or during the occasional romantic film. But she was so strong, too. She was fighting the tears, fighting crying. Maybe because he was there.

“Let me,” he said. He gripped the heel end of the shoe in one hand, then positioned his other hand under the sole. “This will hurt, but only for a second.”

She nodded, and gripped the arms of the chair so hard her knuckles turned white.

Draco met her gaze and gave a curt nod, then in a swift motion pulled the shoe off.

Hermione yelped in pain, grabbing his shoulder and squeezing so hard that it hurt. But he knew his pain was nothing compared to hers, so he did not complain. Once the wave passed, they both looked at her foot. A huge bruise had already formed around her toes, and the big toe appeared to be broken. A few other toes were bleeding.

Draco let out a whistle. “Merlin, what did he do?”

“Neville isn’t the most coordinated … he landed hard on my foot and then turned, twisting my foot beneath his.”

He sighed. “Let me fix this?” he asked, looking up at her.

She nodded, biting her lip.

He tried with all of his might to keep his hands from shaking out of nervousness as he took her heel in his hand. That didn’t work. So he put himself on one knee and rested her foot on his other leg. He grimaced to himself as he realized bitterly that he was in proposal stance. Only if he were to say those words, she’d probably kick him in the head, despite her broken toe.

Draco healed the broken toe, then the bleeding ones, then the bruises. Hermione said nothing through the entire process, only sucked in her breath when she felt a little pain. When he finished, he set her foot down on the carpet.

“Wiggle,” he said.

She did, and then smiled warmly at him. “All better.”

“Good,” he said and then sat on the floor, suddenly feeling a little sick from all the heavy drinks and drama of the evening.

“Thank you,” she said softly, after a moment of silence passed.

“You’re welcome,” he replied. They looked at each other and he watched as her eyes were first friendly, then surprised, then completely closed and resigned. Like she had only just then realized that they were in a room all alone.

She wiggled her toes again and looked at the door and sighed. “I’m not exactly anxious to dance right now.” She looked at him. “But you should get back to your date,” she said with a sudden sneer he hadn’t known she possessed.

He blinked.

“She’s—”

“Whatever, Malfoy. Like I care.” Hermione bent to either examine her toes or avoid meeting his eyes.

Draco frowned at her use of his surname. That actually hurt. Her sudden anger was confusing; if she truly didn’t care, she wouldn’t have brought it up or reacted the way she did. The thought sobered him. She still cared about him, in some way at least.

“I can explain,” he started, suddenly tired of the forced distance between them, but then he didn’t know what he’d actually say.

“How long have you two been together?” she asked, cocking her head to the side and giving him a Mrs. Weasley look.

“I just met her tonight.”

Her jaw dropped for the umpteenth time since he’d sat down to dinner. “What? Then what was all that—that—garbage at dinner?”

He grimaced. “Something of a … joke gone bad.”

“A joke? Well, I don’t think it was very funny.”

He shrugged. “Nor did I, actually. Pansy … was trying to help.”

“Help? With what?”

Draco thought quickly. “She reckoned I might be uncomfortable at a table with threecouples and wanted me to have someone to talk to.” He thought he saw her recoil slightly.

She ignored his jab. “Uh-huh. Well, you pretty much ruined dinner for everyone.”

“Luna didn’t seem bothered,” he added, his frustration building. Why was she being so snippish? “Dinner was ruined for Neville when he spilled his wine on his shirt, and … and Fred probably didn’t notice a thing, he was so busy staring down your dress!”

“Jealous?” Her face turned bright red the instant the words were out, and it was obvious she had spoken without thinking.

“The day I am jealous of Fred Weasley is the day I break my wand and go live among the Muggles.” His reaction was instinctive, drawn from years of self-preservation and he lied through his teeth, but she was too flustered to notice.

She opened her mouth to speak but the door burst open and in came the red-headed joker himself—Fred.

“Hermione! Are you okay?”

She sent Draco one last conflicted glare, then said, “Yes, I am, Fred. Thank you.”

Fred turned to Draco, who was still sitting on the floor with his arms resting on his bent knees. “Hey, thanks, mate.”

Draco merely nodded, and watched numbly as Fred led Hermione out of the room. His insides, which had been boiling from jealousy and anger moments before, were now frozen. He replayed the last few minutes in his mind. How had the conversation taken that particular turn? He had been insanely jealous all through dinner, of course, but he knew he hadn’t let it show. He was too good at masking his emotions to have been careless.

That meant her reaction had come from somewhere else, though he couldn’t imagine its source. Prior to that evening, he hadn’t even known about her and Fred, so it didn’t make any sense.

I Unless … /I He shook his head. i She /i wasn’t the jealous one, she couldn’t be … That made no sense either.

After a few minutes, he found his way back into the ballroom, back to the bar, and ordered the strongest thing they had, no longer concerned with appearances. Kara came up to him, and he made it quite clear that he wanted nothing at all to do with her. Only by chance did he notice that Hermione had been watching the exchange, a look of interest, albeit cool and reserved, on her face, and he was a little glad she’d seen. Maybe then she’d believe him—yet she might still think poorly of him for carrying on with Kara for no apparent reason.

Oh well. No one had ever accused him of being a good person and certainly not a perfect one. He made mistakes and plenty of them. Maybe he tried to be good, but he knew for sure he wasn’t any good at it. He would always have that streak of nasty running through his blood. His pure blood.

“Having fun, Draco?” said Pansy, stopping beside him.

He scowled. “Tons.” Then he looked at her. “Where do you know Kara from, anyway?”

“Marseilles. Why was dinner awful?”

He shook his head with a shudder. “Kara was … a bit too convincing and I played along a little too well. I … think Harry wants to pull my fingernails out with pliers and string me up by my hair. And Hermione …” He took a drink from his glass.

“I’m so sorry, Draco! I had no idea! I only wanted you to have someone to talk to, and someone who would show some interest in you. Just, you know, so Hermione wouldn’t think you never go out.”

“I don’t go out, Pansy. She knows that.” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “You tried. Thanks. I gotta go.”

“It’s not midnight!”

He looked at her pointedly.

“Oh, fine. You can go.”

He chuckled. “I’m glad I have your leave.”

She smiled at him reluctantly. “As though I could ever make you do something you didn’t want to do.”

“Lovely evening, Pansy,” he said, trying to sound sincere before kissing her cheek. “Happy Christmas.”

“I’ll see you soon, okay?”

Draco nodded and finished his drink, then set the empty glass on the table. He felt oddly sober considering the amount of alcohol he’d consumed. Had Pansy requested all non-alcoholic drinks? Or had he been through one too many sobering moments that night? No matter. He glanced around the room; Harry and Ginny were dancing, as was Ron, and Pansy was now making her way out to him. He didn’t see Hermione or Fred anywhere and it made his blood boil. Stop, leave off, he scolded himself, and promptly left the room.

He was walking through the main hallway toward the door when he heard his name.

“Malfoy.”

Draco stopped. He knew that voice. A dozen emotions coursed through him, the good ones overpowering the negative, and so he did not simply resume his path and ignore her. He counted to ten before turning around. “Granger.”

She’d walked right up to him, stopping a few feet away. Her demeanor suggested that she’d either had enough alcohol that she didn’t care about what she’d blurted earlier or she was ignoring it. She stood with her hands on her hips in the gesture that Ginny did so well. He couldn’t help but think that she looked endlessly adorable.

“Why are you leaving?” she asked in a voice that said she was itching to run and tattle on him.

“Why do you care?” he snapped, mentally exhausted from the constant effort of behaving antagonistically toward her. It was much easier for him to behave naturally around her.

“It’s not midnight yet. Pansy wants everyone to stay until midnight. Something about a special presentation or guest arriving …”

“Since when do I do what people want me to do? And what concern is it of yours?”

She opened her mouth to speak, then thought better of it. After a moment’s pause, she replied. “None, of course. I just don’t want an angry Pansy on my hands.”

“Pansy knows I’m leaving, that these … affairs aren’t my thing. She knows me.”

Hermione frowned at him sadly. “I thought I knew you too,” she said, and turned to leave.

Draco wanted to call after her, to demand that she explain her declaration, but his thoughts were interrupted. She had taken a few steps when an unknown force propelled her back toward him. He caught her to steady her so she wouldn’t fall, and she rounded on him, a murderous look in her eyes.

“Let me go.”

He released her, putting his hands up. She tried to walk away, glaring over her shoulder, but the same thing happened—she ended up in his arms. This time she pushed him away.

“Malfoy, what are you doing?” she asked angrily.

“Nothing at all. Why are you getting so angry?”

“Because. You—you’re impossible. And infuriating, and—”

“None of that can possibly be news to you.” He kept his features controlled, displaying a slightly indignant expression, but inside he wanted to shake her and ask exactly when she had decided that he was impossible to be around, and how he was so infuriating. “Besides, you’re not exactly easy to be around, either.”

“Oh my, this will be fun,” came a third voice. Both Hermione and Draco looked around for its source.

“Over here,” it called. “On the wall.”

To Draco’s left was a painting of an old man. He had a red and white beard, bright blue eyes, a freckled face and a smug grin. He looked like a cross between Dumbledore and Ron.

“What are you talking about?” demanded Hermione.

The portrait hummed and slowly looked up at something over their heads. So Draco and Hermione looked up too.

Draco recognized it first, and whipped his head down to look at Hermione, eyes wide. He felt a little sick. He knew Pansy, and he knew what that … stuff hanging above their heads was. It was another one of her ideas she thought was witty.

Hermione met his gaze and narrowed her eyes at him. “What is that?” she asked, pointing above her.

“What do you think, Hermione?”

She paled. “Is it really?”

“Afraid so,” the painting interrupted. “Miss Parkinson likes her little fun. “That’s the notorious Mistletoe, Viscum album. Parasitic plant, actually. Bloke by the name of Baldur died from its poison, and—””

Draco groaned. “It’s more than just the plant, though.”

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked.

“I’ve been prey to Pansy’s magical mistletoe before. I can easily get us out of this little situation.”

“What situation?” She asked, exasperated, crossing her arms.

“Er …” He felt the heat rush into his cheeks and stopped.

“Allow me,” said the painting. “You may have noticed that you’re unable to walk away from the young man. That is because the mistletoe was charmed to secure a kiss from any unwitting couple who happened to walk beneath it.” Hermione gaped at the painting. “In other words, you can’t leave until you plant one on him.”

She sucked in her breath. “I am not kissing him.”

Draco felt a little hurt. Wounded pride, and all that. “Oh, it won’t be that bad, Granger. You’ll live through it. Might even enjoy it.”

Hermione refused to look at him.

Draco didn’t think, just grabbed her wrist and before she knew what was happening, pulled her close to him. She gasped and tried to get away, fighting him with every movement.

“Be still, Granger.”

“My nameis Hermione!”

He blinked. Well, that was a nice, convenient double standard. He grabbed her wrist and hesitantly pulled her hand up to his mouth like a gentleman from an age past. She froze, her eyes wide, as he nodded politely and kissed her hand. She jerked it away, but her gaze never left his. There was something new in her eyes too; she seemed genuinely surprised and affected by his gesture.

“There. You should be free to go now.”

Hermione just stared at him, holding her hand at an odd angle. She turned and walked away from him, only to be pulled back once more. This time, he wasn’t expecting it, and she knocked into him, sending them both to the floor.

“Merlin! Malfoy, what are you playing at?”

He stood quickly and brushed himself off. He reached a hand down to help her up, which she only stared at. “Draco,” he said, giving her a stern look and retracting his hand. Then he frowned, and shrugged. “It used to work…”

The painting cackled. “Miss Parkinson said she used to put that little loophole in for any of her boys that got stuck with someone called Millicent. Now you have to actually kiss. On the mouth.” The old man laughed merrily. “Oh, and you two seem to hate each other! This is the most fun I’ve had in, well, too long.”

“We don’t hate each other,” Hermione snapped at the jovial work of art.

Draco looked at her. “You’ve done good job of acting like you hate me.”

She looked at him. “Well, I don’t,” she said quietly.

He softened. “You know I don’t hate you, right?”

She nodded.

“Then why are we acting like this?” He wanted to ask why she was acting like this, as he hadn’t changed in his behavior, but thought it best not to. They were actually talkingabout it, which was near to a miracle.

She looked away. “It’s…complicated.” She was still sitting on the floor, her pretty dress getting rumpled, but not seeming to care one bit. He smiled; he missed that, too. He watched her sigh and pull her knees to her chest, resting her chin on them.

“You’re not going to tell me what’s going on, are you?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I can’t. I’m sorry; I wish I could.”

“You can, but you just won’t.”

She shrugged. “I suppose. Same difference.”

He sat down too, not wanting her to have to strain her neck to talk to him. After a few minutes of silence, he said, “You’re getting your dress wrinkled.”

She laughed, and looked up. He was surprised to see that her eyes were bright and shiny, as if she’d been crying.

He frowned, wanting suddenly to be able to comfort her; their entire disagreement, the last two-and-a-half months, the fact that she was at the party with Fred, everything was forgotten. “Hermione, are you all right?”

“Yeah, fine.” She looked away and casually wiped her eyes and he knew she didn’t want him to know she’d been crying.

“Please,” he said quietly and she looked back at him. “Did I—I mean, was there something—” Just then a cheer went up from down the hall, in the ballroom.

“It must be close to midnight,” she said.

“Hermione, talk to me.” His gut was a mass of twisted nerves, axons firing spasmodically. If she did, if there was something bothering her other than the amusement park, if he’d hurt her unknowingly, if there was something he could make right, then nothing in the entire world would stop him.

She hesitated, as though she seriously wanted to tell him, but was still fighting with herself about it. She shook her head and sniffed. “Let’s just—get this over with. Okay?”

Draco nodded and stood, feeling as though someone had slammed into his lungs, forcing all the air out, and he couldn’t draw another breath. He offered his hand to her once again; this time she accepted it. And quick as a wink, his hands were suddenly sweaty and his mouth had gone dry. An awful, pleasant swirling sensation burst into furious motion in his stomach. She inched closer to him, and he saw that her breathing was ragged and shallow. Then she stopped, still too far away. He would have to go the rest of the way to her.

He took one step to close the distance between them. Hermione was staring directly forward, at his chest. He reached up and took her chin in his hand, gently tilting her head up toward his. She looked at him, and her eyes were clear, now full of that other something he’d seen before when he’d kissed her hand. And he still didn’t know what it was. They just looked at each other for what seemed an eternity. Her eyes were swirling, searching his. They showed a hint of fear, but not fear of him, per se. She blinked, and then swallowed.

He thought he should probably say something—something witty to ease the tension, or suave to increase it. But he didn’t think either of them would be able to hear over the hammering of his heart, or the questions in her eyes.

As he brought his face closer to hers, she kept her eyes locked with his, as though she were anchoring herself to him. When his lips were an inch from hers, she shut her eyes tight, took a shallow breath, and a pleasant sigh escaped her lips.

Draco paused in his descent, smiling to himself before gently, lightly covering her lips with his. Her lips were soft and warm and they shot a fire through him that he felt in the deepest part of his soul. He felt, almost imperceptibly, the remaining distance between their bodies lessen. He didn’t move right away though he knew—something wasscreaming at him—that he should. It took every ounce of strength he had to pull away from her seconds later.

When they parted, she was looking at him with such depth of emotion that he was sure she would drown him. Slowly, she put distance between them, never breaking their eye contact. He couldn’t move, as he wasn’t sure his knees would support him.

“It should work now,” he said hoarsely, also unsure of his voice.

She nodded and walked away, until she was well beyond where the invisible boundary had been, and then turned around to look at him. Neither spoke, they only looked at each other, Draco fighting hardthe urge to go to her and take her in his arms and continue what they’d started, now that he trusted his legs again.

Then she disappeared back into the ballroom.

Draco stood rooted to the spot.

“Well, I need a cold shower,” said the portrait.

Draco snapped back to life and glared at it, then turned and left the house to the sound of cheering and clapping and merry-wishing ringing in his ears.

ooo
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