We learned the sea

Gravity is your mother's hand
Gravity is your father's voice
Gravity is your baby's heartbeat in his sleep
Gravity is visiting your birthplace defined as a race
Gravity is... tender memories of hard times
Gravity put the letters together in my rhyme
Gravity... is all around
Gravity... make we all get down, check it...

-- Guest appearance by Mos Def on The Bush Babees album titled, “Gravity.”

ooo

Gravity

Chapter 7

Hermione started coming over again, though not as frequently as before, as Draco now had to share her with Fred. Every visit once again centered around his books, though he knew she enjoyed all of their time together just as much as he did. He returned to trying to stump her, creating harder, more intricate patterns to his organization, but no matter how hard he tried, she always figured it out. Sometimes it took her a while, days even, but she always figured it out.

Draco considered the possibility that his system was flawed. Given enough time, she could, in theory, discover any pattern he devised. She was meticulous in her investigation and kept very detailed notes about her discoveries. He started to wonder if he would ever be able to stump her, but he wasn’t ready to give up trying.

In early April, on a bright, cloudless morning, Draco approached his cliff, broom in hand, determination on his face. A full year had passed since he began planning to jump, and it was time to move to a new stage. The time had come to jump without his broom.

He wasn’t sure he could do it. All of the nerves in his body felt on fire as he hesitantly glanced over the edge of the cliff. The water was calm, the waves rather peaceful as they crashed against the rocks, their white caps shining in the morning sun. He couldn’t have designed a better day for beginning phase two of his experiment.

Draco thought of Hermione and sighed, she didn’t know of his obsession with the cliff, didn’t know what he had been planning and practicing. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t told her, possibly the most important person in his life, when he’d told Harry and Ron. He thought he knew what she would say. She would look at him skeptically and ask him why. That wasn’t a question he wished to answer, and she wouldn’t like that. After deliberating back and forth, she'd eventually huff and ask to go over his measurements and calculations with him. Then, when it finally came to it, she would shut her eyes and not watch. He smiled warmly at the thought.

Despite his misgivings in the past, Draco now believed that she cared for him. It hadn’t required a monumental shift in his thinking, either. She just did. He didn’t bother to consider in what way; he only knew it was hard to define.

The thought made his heart swell, and he set the broom on the ground and jumped before he could think of anything else. After two seconds, he Summoned his broom, and once he righted himself, he stopped falling in another half-second. Even though his intention was always to jump without his broom, he was proud of the fact that he had finally done it. The act put him in a contemplative mood, and he lay on his broom, flying lazily just above the surface of the water, letting his fingers trail through the water’s surface.

Draco had never been in such a situation before, of feeling so much for one person and wanting her in his life in some capacity. He hadn’t asked her to the show in February hoping that she’d break up with Fred and he couldn’t give a name to the feelings of panic that welled in him when he thought about telling her how he felt, but his gut feeling said that it was more than simply being nervous about rejection.

Though he loved Hermione, he was secretly thankful for the barrier between them. Admitting his feelings for her to himself had been one thing. Seeking a relationship was something else completely, and he didn’t think he was ready for it. The cushion that Fred provided allowed Draco time to think, to weigh, to plan, all the while knowing that Hermione was off limits.

Still, their friendship was something he treasured, and he was determined to stump her in his book arranging. He let his mind wander, running through scenarios and patterns. Then, suddenly, a thought occurred to him and he sat straight up on his broom … and then promptly fell off into the water.

Merlin, it was cold! He climbed back on his broom, shivering, and headed back to his house. He dried himself, but he was still chilled. It felt as though the water had been sucked beneath his skin and had gone all the way to his bones. Once inside, he brewed a pot of tea and when he stopped shivering, headed upstairs and set right to work.

ooo

Draco sent Hermione a formal invitation asking her to join him for dinner.

“You are cordially invited to the home of Draco Malfoy, on April the fourth at four-thirty in the afternoon, for an evening of dinner, conversation, and failing to discern the pattern in my book room. Kindly R.S.V.P. at your earliest convenience.”

He smiled when he sent it off, attached to his owl’s leg, and pictured her opening it. She would first be surprised to see his owl, as they very seldom communicated via owl post. Then she would frown at the fancy parchment and script, curiosity raging through her. She would quirk an eyebrow at his barb, and hastily scribble a snarky reply about how he would never stump her, he hadn’t been able to come close yet, and she would arrive early, eager to prove him wrong.

At four on the appointed afternoon, there was a knock at his door.

“Hermione,” he said, a smug grin on his face.

“Malfoy.”

He knew her use of his surname no longer indicated that she was angry, only anxious to prove him wrong. He held open the door for her to enter, and she dropped her jacket and bag on the floor.

“Dinner will be served around seven. I’ll call you when it’s ready. I trust you are anxious to get started, so please, don’t let me hold you back.”

She looked at him, then smiled, and ran upstairs. “Thanks!” she called at some point as she raced toward the book room.

He chuckled, and went outside to tend his garden. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be in the house alone with her; that didn’t bother him anymore. He simply knew he’d have a hard time avoiding the book room, wanting to check on her progress, maybe tease her a bit. Had it really been just a year ago that he had wanted to be as far from her as possible? Now all he wanted was to be near her, to enjoy her company, her sharp wit and her mind-bending questions. .

Draco was pleased with their renewed friendship. Hermione seemed even more relaxed with him now than she had been originally. She didn’t concern herself when she accidentally spilled wine on his rug, and made herself more at home, not waiting for him to offer food or drink. It pleased him immensely that she now felt at home with him.

Their conversations remained essentially the same, though they were never dull. They discussed his work, her research, various projects or things going on in the wizarding world, and as always, books. He relished the thrill he felt when they got into a heady conversation, because one of them inevitably played Devil’s Advocate. They could talk for hours and barely notice the world moving around them.

When the sun dipped below the trees, Draco knew he should start dinner. He brushed the dirt from his hands and went inside to prepare a small but delicious feast. This was a special night, and he wanted it to be memorable—and not only for her. For starters, the day before he had made a thick, hearty soup of vegetables from his garden and let it sit all day, allowing the flavors to mingle and deepen. Next he would serve roast sirloin with Yorkshire pudding. Dessert would be a dark chocolate custard served with raspberry glaze.

At quarter to seven, Draco sent a folded paper message to Hermione, alerting her that dinner would soon be ready. She came down the stairs at precisely seven, frowning. Draco held out her chair and after she sat, pushed it in for her. She still hadn’t acknowledged him and he smirked, knowing his arrangement was puzzling her.

He managed to pull her from her musings during dinner by talking about his week and asking questions about hers. That was the surest way he knew to get her talking, and it worked. After that, they discussed the most recent attempt by the Ministry to root out and deal with Dark wizards. Then, when she had only a few bites remaining on her plate, she changed the subject.

“I was supposed to go out with Fred tonight,” she told him, not looking up. “He doesn’t understand this … thing we do.”

“Oh. You mean, with the books?” he asked, apprehensive about where she was going.

She nodded. “I told him I couldn’t turn this down, and he got upset, asked why I couldn’t just come over here tomorrow. I said I couldn’t, that I’d been invited for tonight, and I didn’t know what you were doing tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow would have been fine,” he said.

Hermione sighed and then looked him in the eye. “I don’t think anyone understands me quite the way you do.”

Draco swallowed hard, holding her gaze. He was thrilled to hear she had cancelled on Fred to spend time with him, and stunned at her confession.

Suddenly she stood and started gathering the dishes. “Can I help you wash up?”

“No,” he said, forcing his thoughts to the present. “I don’t recall that being in the list of things you would be doing tonight,” he said, taking the dishes away from her and setting them in water. “You go on. I’ll be up with dessert in a little while.”

She looked at him, her eyes dancing with indecision, and then she smiled and thanked him, and headed back upstairs.

Once she was gone, he stopped washing and stared out the window. She hadn’t told him anything he didn’t know, but it was the first time she’d said anything like that, admitted that she knew there was a special connection between them. However, he didn’t want to spend his time thinking about what-ifs. They were good at ignoring such things, and it would likely continue that way.

After finishing the dishes, Draco waited a few hours, until almost midnight, before taking two small plates up to the book room. He wanted her to be good and flustered by the time he brought up the dessert.

Hermione was sitting on the floor, her list and a quill in hand, surrounded by a stack of books, now spread out and divided into smaller stacks. She’d been about halfway around the room. Those stacks she’d already been through weren’t returned to their previously tidy piles, but bunched up together in one corner of the room. There were also pieces of parchment crumpled into balls tossed here and there in another corner.

“How’s it going?” he asked lightly.

She looked up, her eyes excited. “Well, I’m not sure. I might have something.”

“Oh, good. Well, here’s pudding.” He handed her one of the plates, and, finding an open spot on the wall, sat down and leaned against it.

“Thanks,” she said. “Oh, Draco, it looks incredible.”

“I hope you like it,” he said. He was very calm, keeping hidden the way he was nearly bursting with the anticipation of her figuring it out.

She took one bite and closed her eyes. “Oh, wow. This … is incredible. I’ve never had anything so amazing.” She took another bite.

He chuckled. “Flattery will get you nowhere with me.”

“I’m not trying to get you to tell me. Although I wouldn’t complain if you dropped a few hints …” She smiled. “This is really good pudding. Thank you.”

“I’m pleased you like it.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes, and then Hermione set her empty plate on the floor and returned to the parchment she’d just been examining. Draco watched in silence as she went through a few more books, smiling through three, and then frowning at the fourth. He grinned. She ripped her parchment in half, balled it up, and threw it across the room, letting out a frustrated groan.

“Problem?” he asked, nonchalantly.

She glared at him. “This is impossible. I mean, I think I’ve got something, and then I move to the next stack, and a few books in, the whole thing falls apart. I’ve started completely over four times now, and—it’s not making any sense. Those piles over there,” she said, pointing across the room, “Are done by author’s middle initial, but none of the rest of these books have author’s middle initials. And those,” she said, pointing again, “are done by color. You’ve never used color before, so I just don’t even know where to begin.”

“Huh,” he said, watching her with amusement and taking his last bite of cake.

“It’s almost as if …” She trailed off and then looked at him in surprise and disbelief.

He grinned, watching her closely as things finally fell into place.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t, what?” he said, innocently.

“You prat!” she cried, exasperation on her face. “There is no pattern is there?”

He shrugged.

She punched him in the arm, so hard that it hurt.

“Hey!” he said, rubbing the injured area. “I bruise easily!”

“There is no pattern,” she groaned, dropping her head in her hands. “I’ve been sitting here for hours. I’ve been going through books, making notes, forming theories, tossing them out, for hours, and there’s no pattern.”

He smirked. “As promised on your invitation, I stumped you.”

She threw her crumpled up pieces of parchment at him in rapid succession.

He ducked out of habit.

“Well?” she asked, glaring at him in a playful way. “Did I get it right?”

He nodded. “So, in a way, I didn’t stump you.”

“Yes you did. If you hadn’t asked me about it, and I hadn’t voiced my problems, then I wouldn’t have put it together. I would have come to you, probably after staying up all night, and confessed that I couldn’t work it out.”

“I didn’t want to keep you all night,” he said considerately.

Hermione scooted back against the wall adjacent to the one where Draco was leaning. She gave him a defeated smile. “This … this took a lot of work. You deliberately putpatterns in some of the stacks to throw me off.”

“I did. I had to; if all the stacks were randomly made, you would have picked up on it immediately.”

She groaned. “Well, you did it. Congratulations.”

“Are you upset?”

She looked at him and smiled, one of those brilliant ones that lit the room. “No. It’s really quite funny.”

He smiled, and stood, and collected their empty plates in one hand. “More custard?”

“Yes, please,” she said, accepting his offered hand.

Draco tried to ignore the intense, wonderful sensations emanating from their joined hands, but it caused him to pull her up with a little too much gusto and she crashed into him, nearly sending them both to the floor. He grabbed her around the waist to keep her steady, and now they were inches from each other. He could see the flecks of gold in her eyes, feel the gentle pressure of her light breathing against his chest, smell a hint of chocolate, old books and something floral. It was way too close for comfort. They shouldn’t be close like this. She knew it, he knew it. But she didn’t try to back away, or push him off. She just kept looking at his mouth, her face marred with confusion, and his brain clouded, and he looked at her mouth, and—

Dropped the plates. They broke after hitting the hard, wood floor, making a huge noise. As though the contact burned, he let go of her and she jumped back in the same instant. He couldn’t look at her, so he just stared at the jagged pieces on the floor. They reminded him of the sharp, jagged rocks that protruded from the water at the bottom of his cliff.

“I think I’ll take a rain check,” Hermione said, and hurriedly moved to the door.

“Yeah,” he replied, bending down to pick up the pieces.

“You can just use your wand, you know.”

“I know. Sometimes I like to do things by hand.”

“You could cut yourself though.”

He smiled. She couldn’t resist trying to help, and it was nice to be reminded that she still cared, even after what almost happened. “I’ll be careful. Night, Hermione,” he said, taking extra time in picking up the plates, so he wouldn’t have to turn around and look at her.

She sighed. “Night, Malfoy.”

He bristled at her use of his surname, but soon she was descending the stairs, and then the door had opened and shut. He exhaled and sat down hard on the floor, dropping all the shards of plate, and put his head in his hands. He couldn’t believe he had almost kissed her. He knew she had a boyfriend, but all thoughts had fled his mind as he had stared into her eyes. He never did that, never went after someone who was taken. If Hermione ever got so far as to want to marry the red-head, then Draco would probably say something to her, but now, they were only dating and he would not interfere.

What was more, he couldn’t believe she’d almost let him kiss her. He didn’t even want to think about what that meant, or he might become very impatient and do something he would regret even more than kissing her. She had the boyfriend, so he would simply have to wait that out before he would even think about any possible next steps.

He banged his head against the wall until it ached dully. Then he pulled out his wand and finished cleaning up the mess.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. He scolded himself all the way down the stairs, through the house, and outside to the edge of the cliff. Then he tossed the shards over.

ooo

Draco spent the next two weeks trying to decide what to do and berating himself for his near-slip. He had gone after her, showing her that he wanted her friendship back. They’d been great for two months, and then he almost kissed her. She hadn’t written to him or spoken to him since, but then, neither had he.

He was afraid he had crossed the line and scared her off, afraid that she would refuse to see him. He didn’t want that possibility confirmed. At the end of a fortnight, he heard from her. She wrote to ask him to meet her for tea one afternoon that week in Diagon Alley. His stomach was in knots as he waited for her to arrive and it didn’t improve once she had.

Tea was awkward, painfully so, for the first ten minutes. Neither of them really spoke, only offering sugar, cream, or biscuits. Then Hermione must have decided she’d had enough and started talking about her week. She went on without pause for another ten minutes, and Draco just sat there, still sure this was the last time he would see her. Then she asked him about his week, and he reluctantly responded with as much detail as he could, and they carried on a stilted conversation for another twenty minutes.

When they parted, Hermione said they should meet for tea again, and he agreed. They settled on the following week, at the same time and same location. When she left him standing on the sidewalk, he still expected her to turn around and tell him she never wanted to see him again.

ooo

On a Friday near the end of May, Draco was in Diagon Alley completing a list of errands before lunch. In the window of the junk shop, he saw a set of old ink bottles that looked quite valuable. He entered the shop to inquire about the bottles, and while he waited for the clerk to return, he decided to browse the merchandise.

Spring was blooming, couples were strolling through Diagon Alley, and he was grumpy. He set down a half-used bottle of broom polish and turned the corner of an aisle, which boasted a collection of Muggle artifacts. Draco scoffed at the assortment, but then his eye was caught by a rectangular object with buttons on it. The buttons were mostly numbers, but some were symbols. He was completely caught up in trying to figure out what the object was, and failed to notice someone approach him.

“Excuse me, are you Draco Malfoy?”

He jumped a little, startled, and turned around to see a woman looking at him. She had short, dark blond hair and green eyes.

“Yes,” he replied, a bit impatiently, tossing the unknown device back onto its shelf.

“Hi,” she said, boldly holding her hand out to him. “I’m Sarah Burke. I’m a Healer at St. Mungo’s and I’d like to ask you something.”

Draco glanced around the store, as though hoping for rescue from another customer, but found the place was empty save himself and Healer Burke. “Okay,” he replied cautiously.

She took a deep breath and started speaking very fast. “Right. Well, I have a very sick patient who’s only thirteen and her family can’t afford the experimental medications she needs. Would you … consider paying for them?”

Draco was speechless. He tried to remember if a stranger had ever personally approached him asking for money before and couldn’t think of a single occasion. He received letters on a regular basis, asking for money for various causes and charities, and had hired someone with the express responsibility of sorting through such requests, looking at the causes and charities, and deciding which would receive an affirmative letter from Malfoy, Inc.

Never before had he been asked while in the middle of his shopping. He looked at the witch more closely, then. She was pretty, a bit frazzled, and staring at him like he was the only thing keeping her from jumping off her own cliff.

“You’re asking me to pay for what, exactly?”

“Medicine. It’s like healing potions, only the Muggle version.”

It was obviously going to be a long and detailed plea, and his stomach rumbled then, reminding him that his next stop was a café. “Why don’t we get lunch and you can tell me more?” he said, giving her a patient smile. “I’m quite hungry myself.”

She looked startled. “Oh, uhm, okay.”

They went to the nearest café and sat outside. Draco refused to hear about the patient until they were finished eating. While they ate, he learned that Sarah was two years younger than he and had grown up in the United States. He learned she liked reading but didn’t have much time for it, enjoyed Quidditch, having played on her school’s team, had been near the top of her class, and president of all sorts of school clubs. She had moved to England with three friends on a whim six months before and had taken a job at St. Mungo’s, where she spent nearly all of her waking hours.

“Tell me about your patient, then,” said Draco when they were finished, setting his napkin on his plate and leaning back in his chair.

Sarah nodded and took a sip of water. “First, let me thank you for agreeing to at least listen to me. That’s more than most people have done.”

“It’s no trouble,” he said with a reassuring smile.

“The girl’s name is Erin Andrews. She turned thirteen about four months ago, and attends Hogwarts. A few weeks after her birthday, she began displaying unusual symptoms. Teachers noticed that she had developed a tic, and that as the days passed, it grew more pronounced. Then it seemed that her limbs would act of their own accord, making sudden, random movements.”

“What do you mean?” Draco asked.

“In Potions, for example, she was stirring her cauldron and then her arm flung away from her body, causing her to send a stream of her boiling potion over the classmates in her vicinity.”

“I see,” he said.

“Erin’s body went into a rapid decline. Her systems started failing and her parents, both Muggles, removed her from Hogwarts about ten weeks ago. They took her to Muggle doctors, who agreed that something was very wrong, but they couldn’t identify the cause. Finally, the Headmistress of the school suggested to her parents to try St. Mungo’s. It took only two days to diagnose her. She has a form of neuropathy called Neuromagosis.” Sarah paused. “Do you want the specifics?”

“Generals should do,” Draco said.

“Essentially, whenever we move our arms and legs, and breathe, and when are heart beats or our stomachs digest food, a neurotransmitter is released, called acetylcholine.”

“A what?”

Sarah smiled. “You said generals. Basically, a substance is released. All of our cells have what’s called a plasma membrane, and on these membranes are special receptors that detect magical communication inside our bodies. It is the mechanism by which we can do magic. Is this too boring?”

“Not at all,” said Draco. “Quite the contrary. Magical Mechanisms is not a subject in which I am well versed, though I suspect that will change soon.”

“Oh?” she said.

Draco shrugged. “I read a lot. This is interesting. I’ll probably do some reading on the subject.”

“I see,” said Sarah, surprised.

“Please, continue.”

Sarah took another sip of water. “In Erin's condition, there’s an extra mechanism on those cell receptors. When the acetylcholine binds with those receptors, her body performs the intended function—say, chopping a handful of nettles—and additional functions. Sometimes this can be relatively harmless; she might blink rapidly for a few seconds. Often times, however, it’s much more severe.”

“Like the time in Potions,” Draco said.

“Exactly. These extra functions aren’t limited to her arms, however. As the disease progresses, her internal organs are affected as well. Finally, control over her magic becomes lost, and the person affected becomes a danger not only to him or her self, but to others. We caught Erin’s illness just before it reached the final stage, and put her into an induced coma.”

“That’s awful,” said Draco.

“It is. It’s a very rare condition among magical people, and all reported cases have been in Muggleborns. No one knows why, but there are plenty of theories.”

“What is it you want from me?” asked Draco.

“There is no cure for this condition, and the usual treatment is largely ineffective. The witch or wizard is unable to live a normal magical life. Magic dampening fields are cast on the individual, and the person’s movements are greatly restricted. However, there was an experimental treatment developed and tested in Australia that has shown great results. It’s expensive, and Erin would have to take it for the rest of her life.”

“What does the treatment do? How can it be effective?”

“It’s a synthetic neurotransmitter that binds with the additional nerve on the magic receptors, effectively neutralizing it, making it so that when the acetylcholine binds with the receptors, there is no adverse reaction.”

“Fascinating,” said Draco. “How much is the treatment?”

Sarah bit her lip, a worried frown darkening her features. “It’s expensive, as I said. It’s about a five hundred pounds a month.”

Draco blinked. “How much is that in our money?”

“Right at 100 Galleons,” she said, then smiled sadly at his shocked expression. “I know. That’s why I’ve been unable to get a sponsor for her. The treatment is extremely expensive, but because the condition is so rare, there isn’t a lot of funding for research.”

Draco made a mental note to look into the situation more closely, and not just Erin’s, but all rare yet debilitating diseases in the wizarding world. Perhaps Hermione, with her extensive knowledge and experience in research, would be interested. He would ask her about it at their next tea. He thought about the 100 Galleons a month for the rest of the girl’s life. While it was no pocket change, he certainly wouldn’t miss it, either. It would be a small sacrifice that would possibly enable the girl to come out of her coma, recover, return to school and live a normal life.

Normally, Draco would require research—about the girl, her family, the disease, the medications—before he approved such a gift, but in this instance he found he was unconcerned with all of that. Perhaps it was due to the face that this woman had approached him out of the blue, instead of through the usual method of a letter, asking for help.

“I will do it,” he said, sitting up.

Sarah’s eyes and face lit up with excitement. Tears filled her eyes and she hastily blinked them away. “Really? You … you will?” she said, not quite believing him.

He smiled, warmth spreading through his entire body, reaching to the tips of his fingers and toes. He was used to being pleased, but this was a different kind of joy, one he had never experienced before, and as the minutes passed, it only grew. “Yes, really. I’d be happy to.”

“Oh, Mr. Malfoy, thank you so much! I can’t wait to tell her parents! Oh my,” she wrung her hands, and smiled, radiating happiness. It was highly contagious, and Draco found himself smiling as well.

“Please, call me Draco,” he said. “What happens now?”

“Well, would you like to meet her?”

He blinked. Did he? Doing so would take this to entirely different level, as he rarely had direct interaction with those his company provided with assistance. “That sounds … all right,” he said finally.

“Lovely!” She pulled out a piece of parchment and a quill. “Here is my office information,” she said while scribbling furiously. “Can you stop by tomorrow? Around noon? Her parents usually come by then.”

“Sure,” he said, accepting the parchment. He glanced at it, memorized the information, and put it into his pocket, feeling light, carefree, as though he’d just finished an especially vigorous broom flight.

“Oh, this is incredible. I’m so glad I managed to work up the nerve to talk to you! I thought for sure you’d tell me no on the spot, and then when you said we should talk over lunch, I still thought you were just stringing me along … Thank you.”

“I’m happy to be able to help.” And he meant it.

She stood and gathered her things. “I truly can’t thank you enough. And I’m sorry, but I have to get back to work. I was on my lunch break, and I’m already late getting back.” She looked at Draco, grinning, and said, “Tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow.”

Sarah didn’t move away, she just continued to beam at him, and then without warning threw her arms around him. The hug was quick, but it still surprised him, and he stood awkwardly still, hoping it would be over soon.

When she pulled away, she was blushing. “I’m sorry. I’m just … so happy. Thank you again, Mr. Malfoy.”

“It’s Draco,” he called as she walked away.

She looked back at him over her shoulder and waved.

Draco remained at the table for a long while, pondering what he’d just done and feeling a foreign sense of contentment settle around his heart.

ooo

When Draco woke the next morning, he felt ridiculously good, and as he got out of bed, there was a strange light feeling in his gut, his head and his heart.

At first, he hadn’t recognized the feeling, but soon he remembered what had happened the day before. He smiled to himself. It hadn’t been huge; he had agreed to pay for a girl’s life-altering medicine. It wasn’t the cure for the world’s ills, the end of hunger, but it still felt … good. He had done something spontaneous that would benefit someone else. He’d never committed a random act of kindness before, had certainly never felt that selfless good feeling before, and he discovered that he liked the feeling.

Maybe he should do good things more often. His high spirits made him want to jump again. He went outside, not bothering to put on a shirt.

When he reached his jumping point on the edge of the cliff, he turned around toward the house and looked at his arm in the full sunlight. The tattoo was still there; it hadn’t completely faded when the Dark Lord was killed. He hated it, but he needed it too. It served as a constant reminder of how fortunate he was, how much damage could be caused by hate. He never wanted to forget how it had nearly consumed him, how he had barely conquered it, and how the life he now led was due to his overcoming it. The Mark, ugly as it was, reminded him.

So he jumped, this time waiting longer than two seconds before Summoning his broom. Once he was safely hovering over the water, he grinned at the cliff, feeling as though he could fly to the moon.

ooo

Draco met Sarah in her office after a full morning of meetings. He was a private man, and only those who knew him best could read his eyes and know that the tight smile he sported was indication of thinly veiled excitement.

Sarah greeted him and then took him to see Erin and meet her parents. Since Erin was Muggleborn, and hadn’t even known she was magical when a war had been waged all around them, neither of her parents knew who he was. It was a very surreal experience, meeting people who didn’t flinch at his name or hesitantly shake his hand.

He and Sarah spent two hours talking to Erin’s parents, and he had to assure them repeatedly that he would, indeed, provide the medication for the rest of the girl’s life, or until a cure was found. After the Andrews left, Sarah and Draco returned to her office to start on the paperwork. Draco signed a form stating that he would fulfill his word. The bill for the treatment would be sent to him quarterly.

Once all the necessary paperwork was complete, Draco glanced at the clock on her desk. “Well, I must be going. I’ve got a meeting in half an hour.”

“Oh, of course.” Sarah collected all the forms and set them aside. “Draco, I was wondering,” she said, avoiding his eyes, “if you would let me take you to dinner tonight. To thank you,” she added hastily. “You’ve completely restored my faith in people, and I … just want to express my appreciation.”

He hesitated, unsure of the way she got suddenly nervous and wouldn’t look at him. It wouldn’t be a date, he wouldn’t lead her on. He remembered what Ron had said, about getting out more, and meeting ‘eligible witches.’ Here was the perfect opportunity, should he want it, to indulge in a bit of diversion, though he suspected it would be a futile attempt. “That sounds all right. As a thank you.”

She nodded fervently, but Draco knew he would have to be very careful.

ooo

They had a very interesting dinner, during which Draco learned a few important things.

The first was that Sarah knew hardly anythingabout him. All she knew when she had followed him into the junk shop and then approached him was his name and that he was rich, having seen his name and picture in a gossip rag, next to an article full of speculation about who he was dating, if anyone. She knew nothingof his role in the war, and he was honestly surprised by the realization. She explained that in the States, there was very little information about the war in England, as the Americans had refused to enter the conflict. It made news when Voldemort was defeated, but only Harry Potter was really well known. She didn’t even flinch when she said the Dark Lord’s name.

Draco was amazed. He had thought—perhaps arrogantly so—that his family name, at least, was known everywhere, thanks to his father’s support of Voldemort. The full reality of her ignorance hit him when he realized that Sarah didn’t know he had been a Death Eater. She didn’t even fully understand what a Death Eater was, other than a follower of the Dark Lord.

Throughout dinner, Draco considered whether or not to tell her the truth. He hadn’t seen trust like that in anyone’s eyes for a very long time. Though he was generally accepted in the wizarding world, most people still looked at him as though at any minute he would shout, “Fooled you!” and start hexing everyone in sight.

The second, and more important thing he discovered, was that Sarah could never fully understand who he was. She could never know the extent of all he had been through to get to where he was today, even if he could explain the complex tale of his life to this point. He also knew without a doubt that he couldn’t pursue her with his heart a million miles away. Hermione already knew him and cared about him anyway. That was all he needed.

“I … have a bit of news,” said Sarah, as she handed the waiter a handful of Galleons. He had tried to pay for the meal, but she had adamantly refused. “Erin’s parents contacted the Prophet about what you did and they spoke with me just before I came to meet you.”

He suppressed a groan. “Perfect,” he muttered, staring longingly at the empty glass of wine on the table. Apparently Sarah would be finding out the truth about him anyway.

“I’m not sure how the Andrews knew to contact them, but the reporter I spoke with seemed extremely interested in meeting with you, and I imagine someone will be contacting you tonight or early tomorrow. They agreed not to run the story until they’d obtained an interview with you. I think they want to show all sides of the issue and what you are doing.”

“I see,” he said more stiffly than he would have liked. Suddenly the room was very loud and far too warm. “Thank you for warning me.”

“Is something wrong?” she asked, concerned.

Draco stood and helped her into her coat. “I generally prefer not to have my name in the public eye.” He should have known that his ‘good deed’ would not go unnoticed, however; that sooner or later someone would have caught wind of it: a mediwitch, another Healer, the girl’s friends. Eventually, word would have got out that he had been involved, at least this way it would be over quickly.

Draco could almost see the headline: “Malfoy helps Muggleborn!” He knew the papers would make a grand fuss over the fact of the girl’s heritage. They’d lap it up, drink it in, absorb it, and squeeze it for all it was worth. He’d be in the limelight once again, and even though the cause of it this time was something he could be proud of, he still despised the attention. Surprisingly, the prospect didn’t dampen his pleasure at helping the girl. He would simply avoid going out in public for the next month or so.

They parted cordially, and he agreed to stop by to see Erin once she woke up, provided there were no reporters.

He didn’t want to go home, wasn’t ready to go home, knowing what was probably waiting for him. If not a queue of reporters, then a flurry of owls bearing letters requesting his attention. Knowing how pesky the media could be, he suspected the owls would probably bite and claw until he responded to the missives they carried. He left Diagon Alley, found a Muggle pub, and decided he would get well and thoroughly sloshed.

A couple of drinks in, and he was telling the bartender about Hermione, how she was smart, and stimulating. The old man listened while he went on about the intellectual conversations they would have, the trips they would take, the books they would discuss, the meals they would share. A couple more drinks and he stopped talking and started thinking about touching her face, her hair, kissing her, and a variety of other pleasant nighttime activities.

However, the more he drank, the darker Draco’s thoughts turned. If they were together, life wouldn’t be just about good times, there would be bad times, too. Even though the last thing he would want to do was hurt her, he knew he would. He would make mistakes, snap at her, disappoint her, let her down … it was inevitable. Every relationship went through ups and downs, and he was bound to screw up, he felt it in his bones.

Draco was slouched over in a dark, corner booth, nursing his most drink, when the bartender told him the pub was closing; the clock on the wall read half past two. He paid his tab and stumbled onto the sidewalk, his thoughts muddled but still comprehendible.

When he took in the dark street on which he stood, he still wasn’t ready to go home. The last thing he wanted to do was be ambushed by a reporter while intoxicated. Instead, he went to Pansy’s “rental,” knowing he had a fifty-fifty chance of being hexed for waking her.

She answered the door after exactly six and a half minutes of knocking, her hair matted on one side and sleep lines on her face. She squinted at him. “Draco?” she slurred, yawning.

“Pansy, you’re looking lovely as always. How are you?” His voice was quite slurred.

She scowled, wrinkling her nose at the smell of alcohol. “I’m half-asleep, what do you expect? In or out?”

“In, please. Glad to know your acidic tongue is still sharp at this hour.”

She let him in and he stood in the hallway, not sure what to do next.

“Come on,” she said, annoyed. “In here. I hate this room.” It was a side room, lavishly, and, he thought, hideously furnished. She must have kept this door closed during her Christmas party. “What do you want, Draco? It’s nearly three in the morning.”

He shrugged and sat down. “Where’s Weasley?”

“He’s sleeping, like most normal people at this hour.”

Pansy didn’t sit, indicating that she hoped he wouldn’t be staying long. And now that he was there, he didn’t know why it had seemed like such a good idea before. Must have been the alcohol talking. “Have you seen Hermione lately?” she asked, examining her fingernails.

Draco frowned. “No. I’ve had a very busy day and more business tonight.”

Pansy arched an eyebrow. “Oh? What sort of business keeps you out to this hour?”

“Oh, well that ended earlier. I’ve been in a Muggle bar since. Awful stuff, vodka. I’m avoiding my house. What about her?”

“Who?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Hermione.

“It’s nothing. I’m sure you’ll see her soon.”

“Uh-huh.” He considered her for a moment, not liking the fact that Pansy was being so evasive. She was the one who had brought up Hermione, and now she wouldn’t tell him why. “You said she was the only girl who’d have me.”

“I remember.” Pansy glanced at the door.

“I’ve been thinking. Are you sure?”

“Positive. You … you’re … unique, Draco. With your strange habits, like … whatever you do with your books, and your freakishness. You work all the time, you’re incredibly boring … it would drives me nuts, but not her.”

“I think you’re probably right.”

“Oh?” Her eyes widened and for the first time she looked interested.

“Yeah. I realized that tonight. It really hit me, you know. She knows me. While that’s all well and good, maybe … but I don’t think it works both ways.I am not the only guy who would have her. I mean, she’s so much more than me, any guy would be lucky to have her. She should have better than me. In fact, she does, right now, doesn’t she? Fred Weasley is an upstanding chap who treats her well enough and probably makes her laugh. That’s really important, that she laughs. You knowme, Pansy. Would it ever work? Could I evermake that work, ever be enough? Be the right thing?”

Pansy frowned and finally sat down, wrapping her night robes around her. “I don’t know, honestly. Sometimes I think so, other times not. I think you could, if you really tried. I’ve seen you be so sweet to her, but the next minute … it’s like you don’t even acknowledge her.”

He gaped at her. “What do you mean, I don’t acknowledge her? I’m hyper aware of her, always know where she is in a room—”

“Yes, but Draco, she needs to know that. You don’t let her see how you feel. If you were ever going to make it work, you’d have to really show her. None of this mysterious, back and forth stuff.”

His temper was beginning to thin. “What am I supposed to have done? She has a boyfriend. And before that, I didn’t know how I felt.”

“I realize that, but you’ve got to understand something. She’s probably a little scared.”

“Scared? Of what?” he asked, incredulous.

“Well, you, for starters.”

His blood went cold and he paled as images from his recent nightmares played through his mind. The worst thing imaginable was her being afraid of him, but how could he blame her? His worst fear of all, one he tried not to think about, was of his father’s doing. Lucius had done the unthinkable, and Draco could never forgive him, nor could he stop himself from fearing that he could do the same thing.

“What’s the matter?” Pansy asked, only mildly concerned. “Don’t seem so surprised. I’ve known you my whole life, Draco. You’re the most intimidating man I know. You’re rich, you’re good looking, and you’re charming … what girl wouldn’t be a little afraid? You could stomp on her heart and barely notice for all she knows!”

“I notice her!” he said, grateful that he had misunderstood Pansy’s meaning of ‘scared.’

“Well, I know that. Let’s just say … I’ve heard that you haven’t been all that encouraging. There wasn’t a … spark, or something?”

No spark? Merlin, every moment in Hermione’s presence had been one, gigantic spark. That, or a series of small ones that happened so frequently he couldn’t tell where one ended and the next began. She hadn’t felt it? At all?

His shoulders slumped. “Thanks. I’ll be sure to come to you for these talks more often,” he said sarcastically.

“I’m your friend, Draco. I’m trying to be honest.”

“You don’t think I could make it work. What more do I need to hear?”

“You could, Draco. It won’t be easy, though, and it’s not like you to do something that might be hard.”

He scoffed. He’d left everything he knew behind when he switched sides, he thought that classified as hard. And he reminded her.

“Oh, well, besides that,” she said. “That was life or death.”

“And what is this? It’s hardly as simple a thing as choosing between black and blue ink, you know.”

“I know, Draco. I—give me a break, it’s really late. I’m not used to being awake at this time, much less trying to console a friend.”

“I didn’t come here for consolation,” he pouted. “I need to know if you think I could do it.”

“Well, I don’t know. I’d love to say yes. But in all honestly, I can’t.”

His mood was now far worse than it had been before. “Thanks, Pansy. Real help. No suggestions for improvement, no encouragement, no ‘give it a try anyway.’ Just, ‘you’re completely hopeless, Draco, you’re scary and clueless.’ Thanks a lot.” He stood and stormed out of the room.

She caught up to him and grabbed his arm. “Come back tomorrow for lunch. I’ll have a whole listfor you. Draco, please. I’m useless at this hour. You know that.”

He muttered, “Maybe.”

“Please. I’ll be better in the daytime, I promise.”

He sighed. “Thanks. I’ll think about it.”

ooo

Draco got home late. Very late. After leaving Pansy’s, he considered looking for an open bar, but common sense told him it wouldn’t solve anything. It was past three in the morning when he Apparated home, still not-quite-sober. He scowled when he saw that he had arrived a few hundred feet away from his house. He blamed the vodka. And Pansy.

After what felt like a very long period of time, Draco reached his front door. He had expected to see at least one owl, if not more, waiting for him, but since there were none, he surmised that he would be bombarded with correspondence the following day.

Opening the door, Draco removed his jacket with some difficulty and dropped it on the floor. He rubbed his head. It had been a long time since he’d been this drunk. As he shuffled further into the house, he started pulling at his clothes. He loosened his tie, undid the top button of his shirt, and his hands were on his belt buckle when he noticed a strange lump on his sofa.

Frowning, he slowly pivoted to face the piece of furniture that sat under the window of his front room. Not only was there a bushy-haired mass on his sofa, but there was a teacup on the floor near the end of the sofa where her feet were, and a book on the floor, open, pages down, where it had landed when the intruder fell asleep. For her part, Hermione was curled up, her knees drawn up, as though she was cold.

Draco stared at her for a few minutes, amazed. Not only had she broken his wards—again—but she was still there, on his sofa. She hadn’t got too tired of waiting around and gone home, but had read until she literally couldn’t keep her eyes open. Very cautiously, as though the sound of even his breathing would wake her, he crept toward the sofa until her face came into view. Then he froze, mesmerized. He’d never seen anything or anyone so captivating.

An owl hooted outside. He jumped and Hermione stirred. The spell broken, Draco quietly left the room and Transfigured two kitchen towels into a blanket and pillow. He gently covered her with the blanket, making sure all of her was snug underneath. When he turned back toward her head to address the pillow, he saw that she was looking at him.

“Hey,” she said sleepily, rubbing her eyes.

“Hi,” he returned in a whisper. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Waiting for you.”

“It’s three in the morning!”

She snuggled deeper in the blanket and yawned. “Where have you been? And why are we whispering?” She almost sounded like she was drunk too, but maybe it was just being woken up in the middle of the night.

He ignored her questions. “How long have you been here?” he asked, crouching beside the sofa at her eye level.

She shrugged, and then she scrunched her nose and frowned. “Have you been drinking?”

He grimaced. “Well?”

“Well what?” she asked, yawning again.

“What did you want to see me about?”

“I don’t remember. It can wait.”

Draco shifted his weight. “Are you going home, then? Or staying?”

That seemed to break through her sleepy haze and she glanced around the room as though she had forgotten where she was. Then she sat up, tossed the blanket off and tried to stand. She made to walk to the door but stumbled on the way.

Draco steadied her. “You’re in no condition to Apparate, that’s for sure,” he muttered, leading her back to the sofa.

“Hey,” she said, trying to pull her arm free of Draco’s grasp. “The sofa? I really should get a bed, don’t you think?”

He gritted his teeth. “You’ve been here enough to know that there’s only one bed, and it’s mine.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” she said grumpily.

Draco signed heavily and swept her up in his arms, crossing the room in two strides and starting up the stairs.

“I thought I was getting the sofa,” she said with a yawn, wrapping an arm around his neck and resting her head on his chest.

He didn’t say anything, just carried her to his room, the smell of her and the feeling of her leaning against him sending his heart racing. He felt immensely uncomfortable. Usually a man only carried a woman to his room for one reason. Draco over-compensated for his internal struggle and tossed her unceremoniously onto his bed, then quickly retreated to the door. When he saw her melt onto his bed and instantly fall asleep, he couldn’t help but smile

ooo

It took him a few minutes to remember why he woke up to see “Twist” colored walls instead of icy blue. Then he remembered that Hermione was in his bed. The thought sent a painful surge through his head and he squinted, which slightly improved the raging headache. He vowed to never drink Muggle liquor again.

Draco slowly rose from the sofa, his back and neck sore, and stumbled into the kitchen trying to push the light away from his eyes. He found the sober-up potion and downed three tablespoons, then waited for the room to stop spinning.

When it did, he checked the time: eight-forty-seven. Far too early, especially considering he had only slept for five hours. Now that it didn’t make his head pound, he wondered about Hermione. It couldn’t have been coincidence that Pansy had asked him if he’d seen her and then he found her asleep on his sofa. Part of him wanted to go upstairs, wake her and … well, no, he really shouldn’t follow that line of thought.

He couldn’t imagine what had been so important or urgent that she had let herself into his house, made herself at home, and then fallen asleep. People didn’t behave that way under normal circumstances. Not even extraordinary people, like Hermione.

As there was nothing else he could do but speculate until he went mad, he started making breakfast—for two. It felt strange. He had imagined doing it many times, but to actually be standing over the range, thinking about what someone else might want to eat, what she might want to eat, was something else.

She came down just as he was finishing and he looked up when she walked in. He nearly burned himself on a very hot pan because she was wearing his robe. It was his favorite robe, the one thing from his school days he hadn’t burned. His mother had commissioned it at Twilfoot and Tattings. It was a dark, almost-black green with the Slytherin crest on one pocket and warm flannel inside.

There was no way she could know that it was his favorite, and he stared at her as she smiled at him warmly, then went to the coffee pot and poured herself a cup. She sat at the table and started reading the Prophet, as though there was nothing strange about it at all. As though she woke up in his bed and ate breakfast with him every day.

“Morning,” she said, almost as an afterthought.

He turned to stare at the soon-to-be-burned sausage in front of him and quickly returned his attention to breakfast. But every few minutes he heard the sound of the newspaper page turning.

When breakfast was ready, he put it on the table and sat down next to her.

“Did you see this about the Ministry’s new policy regarding underage use of magic?” she asked without taking her eyes off the article.

“Erm … yes, I did.”

“Never thought they’d go that route.”

“No …” He trailed off, still watching her intently and unable to eat. “So, about last night …”

“Let’s talk about it later, okay?”

He nodded. She ate while reading the paper, occasionally mentioning something of interest. He would only mumble an acknowledgement, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“I’ll do the dishes,” she offered when she was finished. “Oh, you didn’t eat.”

“Not too hungry,” he said.

“I’ll put it up for you, for later.”

He nodded and went into the living room, unable to do anything but stare at the wall.

Eventually, she joined him on the sofa, bringing him a cup of coffee. He accepted it warily.

“So where were you last night?” she asked, taking a sip of her own cup. “I came by around seven. Oddly, there were a lot of owls hovering about, and more came as the evening lengthened. I took the letters … they’re in the other room. Most were stamped ‘urgent.’”

He waved off her mention of the mail. “I was … out. I had business.” He shifted in his seat, dreading opening the letters that awaited him. “What did you want to talk to me about that led you to break into my home, pinch a teabag, and then fall asleep on my sofa?”

She shrugged and pointedly looked away, taking a sip of her coffee. “Nothing. I don’t know.” A pause. “I saw you two days ago is all, and, well. I was curious.”

He was completely confused. He’d seen her three days ago, on Thursday, for tea, as usual. “What do you mean, you saw me?”

“In Diagon Alley. With that woman.”

Draco’s brow furrowed even more. “What woman?”

“The blonde one. With the green shirt. Pretty.”

He shook his head, trying to remember two days ago, which would have been Friday … Oh. Sarah. He exhaled in relief. “Oh, right. I remember.”

Hermione took another long drink from her mug and asked, “Who was she?”

“Her name is Sarah and she’s a Healer at St. Mungo’s.”

Now Hermione’s eyes widened. “Oh. I see,” she said, an odd tone to her voice.

“Why didn’t you come over and say something?” Draco was getting a distinct vibe from Hermione, though he couldn’t pick up on it. She was behaving normally, but he couldn’t help but feel that she wasn’t happy with him.

“I was walking through Diagon Alley with Ginny. We were shopping for baby things, and we passed the café, and saw you sitting together, outside. It looked like you were having an intense conversation.”

“Oh.” He wasn’t sure what to say, or what to do, and was only thankful she hadn’t seen him with Sarah, in her red dress, the previous night. It had meant nothing to him, but the way Hermione was talking, he was thankful nonetheless.

“Well?” she asked.

“Well, what? It was nothing.”

“Didn’t look like nothing. I could see the way she looked at you, even though I was across the street. Ginny agreed with me.”

“I assure you there’s a very good explanation for it …”

“It doesn’t matter, I was simply curious,” she said, withdrawing from him.

The way she was acting reminded him eerily of the Amusement Park Incident and he was wary of where she was going.

“I didn’t know you were dating anyone and neither did Ginny. I suppose I thought that of anyone, you might have told me.” She still wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“I’m not dating her,” he said.

“You’re not?” Now she looked at him, her eyes full of surprise and something else.

Relief coursed through him. “No. I just met her two days ago, just before we were at that café, actually. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about it, but figured it could wait until next week.”

“I broke up with Fred,” she blurted, setting her mug on the floor.

At that moment, his brain shut down. It had already been nearing the point of melt-down, with making breakfast for two, her wearing his robe, bringing him coffee.

“What?” was all he could say before she kissed him.

He had pictured kissing her plenty of times, in a variety of settings, especially after their mistletoe kiss, which didn’t really count since it had been necessary in order to be freed from the spell. He was, after all, only human, and he loved her. When it became impossible to keep such thoughts away, he let himself think about it as much as he wanted, because he knew that, barring any spells or hexes that required it, he would never actually doit. The occasion where he almost had, and then hadn’t, proved it to him. He had therefore allowed himself free reign to think about kissing her. He had never, in all his musings, thought that she might kiss him.

Even if his brain hadn’t malfunctioned on hearing that she’d broken up with Fred, it still would have turned into a puddle of goo in the base of his skull now that her lips were on his. All he could think was that he had his arms wrapped around her and his hands in her hair and he was probably dead because never in his life had he felt so incredible or ever thought such feelings were possible.

He kissed her back; he wasn’t stupid. She may have kissed him, but it wasn’t long before he was pouring his heart into the kiss, nibbling on her lips and then dancing within the sweet expanse of her mouth. She leaned into him, kissing him just as passionately as he was her, melding his unquenchable desire with her own.

Much to his annoyance, his brain chose that moment to coalesce, and began with gentle warning taps that grew to shouts, demanding his attention.

Suddenly things started popping in his mind like firecrackers. She’d broken up with Fred, and was now snogging him, quite enthusiastically, on his sofa. She was wearing his robe! Images started parading through his head. Holding hands and walking through the airport to watch the planes; huddling in front of a fire together, holding mugs of steaming hot chocolate; sitting at a table, reading the paper, and eating breakfast; him, grinning at her as though she were the only thing in all the world, and her, in a white dress…

This could happen. She was telling him that she wanted it, that she wanted him. She’d broken up with Fred… And then, all of a sudden, a wave of dread slammed into his chest and he opened his eyes. Somehow the top two buttons of his shirt were unbuttoned and her hands were on the third.

He abruptly stopped kissing her and she opened her eyes. She was smiling at him, her eyes positively blinding they were so brilliant. “Too fast?”

Only he wasn’t smiling. He was wide-eyed and felt as though the room were closing in around him. He made to sit up and she scrambled off him, sitting back, leaving a few inches between them. He was breathing hard and she was too. He didn’t know what to say, only that whenever he thought about speaking, his heart pounded harder and he felt nearly sick.

It felt like eternity was passing very slowly…

“Sorry,” Hermione mumbled, talking to her lap.

He suddenly felt like the biggest git on the planet. He’d panicked, and now what was he supposed to do? The idea—the real, honest, this-is-the-moment idea—terrified him. He’d never been good enough for her, and he would never be, could never give her everything he so desperately wanted her to have. Pansy had told him last night that she wasn’t sure he could make it work, and Lucius … Bugger! Even though he had thought about it, dreamed about it, it had never matteredbefore. And now…

“No, don’t say that,” he said, wishing he could Vanish the sadness from her eyes.

The truth of the matter was, he was scared. More scared than he’d ever been in his life at the very thought of being with Hermione. Because… she’d be able to see. She knew him, yes, better than anyone, but there were still things she didn’t know. All the things he had managed to hide from her, he wouldn’t be able to if they were together. The darkness that plagued him, the night terrors… In this moment, he was certain that Pansy had been wrong, and there wasn’t a woman in the entire world who could ever really love him.

Hermione couldn’t, not really…

She shook her head, drawing his attention. “Then … what?” she asked, looking at him.

He was reminded of one of the many reasons he cared so much for her when he saw the strength in her fiery eyes. “Hermione,” he started, and then realized he didn’t know what to say. His stomach was twisting and spinning and diving and he didn’t think it would ever end. It was far worse than the roller coaster, even after eight rides, worse than the fear and anticipation before he jumped off the cliff. Every breath he took felt like drawing his fingers across a chalkboard. “Say something,” he croaked.

“Like what?” she asked.

“I don’t know, just … something. Please.”

“What do you want me to say, Draco? I think it’s pretty obvious.” She shook her head. “So many mixed signals, and I should have gone with my gut when it told me you didn’t feel anything for me.”

How could she think that after their kiss? It had been so incredible, so transcendent, so … mind-scrambling that he was fairly certain his brain had been rewired. Was it possible it hadn’t been the same for her?

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said, frustrated.

“All those months, Draco!” she cried, wringing her hands in his robe. “I … I wasn’t sure! I waited, I watched, I hated myself sometimes for being so weak as to crave even one small nice word from you! I’ve only been a friend to you all this time and I thought … after … when you stumped me, that maybe I’d been wrong, that maybe you did see me as something different, but you never even wrote, never came to see me.”

He wasn’t breathing and he felt faint. “You were with Fred,” he said limply.

“I had hoped you might fight for me!” she said. “When it became clear that wasn’t going to happen, I finally contacted you, pathetically, because I missed you so much. When I saw you with that other woman, I nearly lost it. It wasn’t fair to Fred—I’d only been trying desperately to get over you—so I broke up with him and came here, last night, because I had to know, Draco, I had to. I can’t stand feeling so insignificant to you.” She was whispering, tears in her eyes, when she stopped.

“You aren’t,” he choked out, feeling like the wind had been knocked out of him. “You aren’t insignificant to me.”

She bit her lip, searching his eyes desperately. “But am I significant? Do I mean anything special to you at all?”

“You have no idea. It’s like you alone have the ability to really se