22. Panic

Eight and Eighth—Chapter 22—Panic

Malfoy wrapped his cloak around her shoulders, drawing her even closer to him. Hermione felt dizzy, lost, and yet… eerily content. His lips formed around hers, melding them together and drawing them apart again.

There was something very natural and sweet about being in his arms. Goodness knew it shouldn't be. But he was warm, his chest surprisingly sinewy, his arms tight and comforting around her.

She should probably push him away. She really should.

It was when she felt the warm, wet sponginess of his taste buds drawing a trail across the crease between her lips that she finally surrendered to her conscious self and yanked her head back. He blinked at her, looking slightly surprised, his mouth still open with his tongue just barely peeking out.

His tongue that had almost been in her mouth.

Now would be a wonderful time to feel sick. Too bad she felt anything but.

He closed his mouth. "I wondered when your brain would take over again."

Hermione tried to scowl and failed. He was still holding her, and it still felt nice. That could be evidence of a psychiatric disorder. With luck.

"We're in class," she gibbered. "Scavenger hunt." That was all her brain could come up with? How was she supposed to beat him in their NEWTs if that was all her brain could come up with?

His hands slid up and down her arms, his thumbs briefly tucking into the crooks of her elbows. "True." He suddenly stopped his movements, let go of her arms, and ducked behind her to pick up her discarded robe and cloak, handing them back to her before grabbing up the spray of mistletoe.

Hermione was in serious trouble. Trouble with a capital T that rhymes with D that stands for Draco Malfoy.

O

They were silent on the trek to that oaf Hagrid's hut, and Granger was jittery. She wouldn't look at him, and she was shaking in a way he couldn't really attribute to the fact that it was February. It was more like she'd had one too many cups of coffee, needed a pee, and was about to make her singing debut without knowing all the lyrics.

Despite it all, she managed to knock on the door and ask for a flobberworm, Hagrid looking over her shoulder and staring at Draco with a muddled expression.

Once that was over, they started back toward the castle in quest of his gobstones, pheasant quill, and a bit of her cat's fur.

"Granger," he began, after they'd passed by Amorell and Moon, who were just now flitting through the main entrance.

"I'd rather not talk right now," she mumbled, speeding up her pace so that he was forced to lengthen his stride to keep up.

"Right," he replied, eyeing her. He really hadn't known what to expect from her. He was pleased enough that she'd even allowed his lips to actually touch hers this time. He'd been enthralled that she'd kept the kiss going for as long as it had. And it had been wonderful—for him. He wasn't sure about her. He'd never kissed anyone before who hadn't been begging for it, and Merlin knew Granger had not been begging for it. Pansy had begged for it. MacDougal had begged for it. With Granger he'd barely even gotten permission. Had he gotten permission?

Why was he even worrying about getting her permission? Wasn't he supposed to be the villain here?

And why, he wondered, had he chosen to tell her what he'd realized about the prophecy? About its deadline being the end of the year. About it not specifying that they'd have to fall in love specifically with one another.

Had he or had he not just dug himself into a hole by saying that they wouldn't be proving Trelawney right? Because even without those stipulations, would a kiss really indicate them falling in love?

A kiss was just a kiss, right?

O

"Harry?" Hermione asked, once class was over, she and Malfoy had each won a mug with a big # 1 in glittering rainbow ink, and she was again safely cloistered in the common room, no blond hair in sight.

"Hmm?" he asked, flipping through a Quidditch magazine that she knew for a fact he'd already read cover to cover four times.

"Harry, I—I need to tell you something." She had to tell someone.

"Yeah?" He didn't set the magazine down, and Hermione rose to pace in front of him, slowly but surely wearing a tread in the rug that lay overtop the old tile floor. He looked up, finally, setting the magazine down. "Something… wrong?" he asked, looking uncomfortable.

Hermione stopped, flushed, and started pacing again. "We kissed," she said in a rush.

"Who—?"

"Actually, you know, there's this fine line between a kiss and a snog, and it might've been crossed, but I don't know!" She was pacing fairly fast now, her hands curling and uncurling around the fabric of her robe.

"Hermione, wh—"

"It doesn't matter. It doesn't. I'm just trying to tell you that Malfoy and I snogged is all, and—"

Now Harry was on his feet. "What?" Hermione stopped long enough to blink at him, and he caught her shoulders. "He what?" Harry demanded.

Hermione's voice had disappeared again. "Kissed me," she said softly, barely a lamb's bleat. She tore away from his grasp to curl into a ball on the floor, wrapping her arms around her knees.

Harry was stunned, standing there staring down at her. "You're not joking, are you?"

There was a buildup of something at the pit of Hermione's throat, and she shook her head no, feeling the warning sensation of warmth just behind and below her eyes. The tears came, and she let them, blinking them down her cheeks. "He likes me," she whispered.

"I should hope so," Harry muttered, still sounding wooden.

"Well, aren't you going to ask?"

"Ask what?"

"If I like him back," she said, curling herself farther inward.

Harry sounded even more baffled than before. "Do you?"

She shook her head, then clutched it. "Maybe," she whimpered.

She felt as if her head were about to explode. She felt like a hypocrite. Her primary reason for breaking up with Ron had not been because he had kissed August. It had been because she could not cope with the idea of a future with him. And now, kissing Malfoy, letting Malfoy be near her, letting him be nice to her, letting him—perhaps—take over Ron's previous job title… it was like taking a step back from Ron. If she couldn't bear the idea of being married to Ron someday, then it should be blatantly obvious that there was no future for her and Malfoy.

So why did she have an itch to give it a go if she knew it was already doomed?

Hermione was not the type to casually date anyone. Hermione was the find someone perfect and commit type.

All right, so there had been a couple exceptions. She'd gone out with Viktor, though she'd never planned to be serious with him. She'd only been fifteen, though, and it had been her first foray with dating. And he'd been the one to ask her out. It had been polite to accept. It had been flattering to have been asked. But even then she'd been hoping Ron would ask her first.

And then there was McLaggen. No explanation necessary in that particular case.

Malfoy had already proved himself to be ten shades of evil in the past, and yet here she was, crying to Harry, almost as if she were asking for his permission. Almost as if she were giving her confession to absolve herself of hypocritical sins.

Harry seemed a bit too stunned to do anything helpful, though. After she'd sat there for a minute or so, he finally jerked himself into a kneeling position in front of her, placing one of his hands lightly on the back of her shoulder, unsure of himself. She imagined he might say "There, there." He might say that if he were a middle-aged woman, that is. Instead he said, in typical Harry fashion, "Er." He said that an awful lot, now that she came to think about it. "So does that mean you don't want me to do something about it?"

"What sort of something?" she mumbled, scraping the back of her hand over her eyes.

"Threaten him… tell McGonagall… something like that?" Now it was as if he were the one asking for permission.

She shook her head, making herself slightly dizzy. "No. He didn't do anything wrong, really."

"Hermione, you're crying," Harry stated obviously. "He must have done something wrong. You certainly didn't just let him. Did you?" he added, looking almost puce at the idea.

Suddenly, discussing this with Harry was starting to look like a very bad idea, even if he was staying gloriously level-headed. She'd really rather not go over details with him. "Define 'just let.'"

Harry looked skeptically at her. "What are you going to tell Ron?" At the look on Hermione's face, Harry scowled. "You are going to tell him, aren't you?"

"Would you if you were in my place? Remember how nervous you felt about telling Ron you liked Ginny? This is worse."

Harry made a face. "I cannot believe we're having this conversation! Even if he has been on good behavior," and the way he said it made it obvious he was alluding to the prison type of good behavior, "that doesn't mean he isn't still his nasty self."

Hermione hung her head. "I know," she groaned. "But you don't know about everything. He's been—" she stopped herself short.

"What?"

"Well, you know how the other day you saw him with a flower?"

"Yeah?" Harry stopped. "You mean it was for you?" At her nod, Harry rubbed his hand over his face. "Has he gone mental? I can understand if he just wanted a snog, but—"

"Harry!" Hermione reprimanded, crossing her arms in front of her.

"But, er, well, it is a bit out of character for him. A lot out of character for him," he corrected himself. "If you don't want me to do anything about it, what are you going to do about it? You can't honestly tell me you're just going to up and start dating the git."

That, Hermione thought to herself, was a very weird idea. And yet, didn't it mirror those fantasies she'd been having? Going to the library and holding hands? Sitting in the common room together?

But it couldn't ever happen.

Or could it? He had no reputation to speak of anymore, and she'd already told one out of the two people she should, theoretically, want to keep this from the most, hadn't she?

Hypocrite, hypocrite, hypocrite!

She really shouldn't be entertaining the idea in the first place, and yet in her mind, she was already seating that idea at a table and asking it whether it would prefer one lump or two.

Where was her brain today?

"I don't know," she answered honestly.

Harry sighed. "I guess I can't make you tell Ron, but I really do think you should, and not just because I'm sure he'd break more than just Malfoy's nose this time." He smiled cheekily, though it didn't quite smooth out the stress lines around his eyes. "I can't believe he actually wrote his initials on your paper!"

"Yeah, I know." Hermione stood and checked her reflection in Harry's glasses. Her eyes were still red. Oh well. "I think I'll go take a nap."

She felt uneasy going down the spiral stairs. It had been dumb luck that no one had walked in on her conversation with Harry. Where Malfoy was right now, she couldn't say. She was just grateful he wasn't waiting for her at the foot of the stairs.

Funny, she thought, as she stared a moment at the door to the boys' dormitory. Funny that she was even thinking romantically about someone she referred to by surname.

She ducked into her own dormitory, averting her red-eyed gaze from August, and lay down in her bed, facing the wall. It would be dinner time soon, and she needed to get herself under control.

O

"Gee," Greengrass—or should he call her Crabgrass?—said, "there seems to be something the matter with your little goody-two-shoes. I wonder what that might be." She steepled her fingers together in mock contemplation.

"Go bother someone who cares," Draco grumbled, though he had one eye on Granger himself.

"Oh, you care," Astoria said. She spooned a Brussels' sprout onto her plate, speared it with her fork, and proceeded to nibble at it, one leaf at a time. Annoying.

"I meant someone who cares to converse with you. I'm leaving." He stood, grabbing a piece of chicken to take along with him.

"Aw, how sweet. Your tail's between your legs and everything. Poor little mongrel—oh, wait, no. That would be what I'd call your children someday, wouldn't it? Your little half-breed pups?"

Was it really wrong to hit a girl? Probably. Maybe he could bribe another girl to hit her for him. Maybe he could even ask Granger to do it and save himself the money.

This frugality thing was starting to grow on him.

"Ha ha." He managed to resist the urge to throw the piece of chicken straight at her head—far too plebian—turned, and walked off. He spared a quick glance in Granger's direction and caught Potter's eye instead.

Uh oh.

Draco sped up his pace some, but he'd barely made it out of the Great Hall before he heard footsteps echoing behind him, and five seconds later, he was being forcibly stopped. He tensed. This was going to hurt, wasn't it?

But the blow, hex, or other sort of physical manifestation of Harry Potter's innate sense of righteousness never came. Instead, the black haired, bespectacled boy just scowled at him. "I'd like a word with you."

"You'll excuse me if I'd rather stay here where there are witnesses."

Potter rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to hurt you, you lousy git. Some of us are above that sort of pettiness."

"Never stopped you before," Draco pointed out.

"Before, you could fight back." They frowned at one another. "Come on." Potter led them back to the common room. Good. At least here there was some chance of someone finding him if Potter decided to turn him into a slug… again. "Take a seat," Potter said, though he made no move to take one himself.

Draco sat. In the case of overprotective war heroes, it sounded like it might be best to do as he was told. This time, anyway.

Potter surveyed him, his arms crossed and his eyes strangely menacing behind their glasses. "I assume you know why we're here."

"Maybe," Draco said. There was still a small chance that there was something else that might have gotten him onto Potter's bad side, more so than usual, that is. Besides, why would Granger have told him? Didn't that technically qualify as girl talk?

"You kissed Hermione." Nope, she'd definitely told him, alright.

"Oh, that."

"Yes, that." Potter's scowl grew even more menacing, if possible. "Why?"

"Felt like it." Draco returned the scowl.

"And how long have you felt like it?"

"Getting a little personal, aren't we?"

"Just answer the question." There was a minute twitch of a vein in Potter's temple, and so Draco decided it might be best to actually come up with an answer.

"October, maybe?" Hell if he knew. These things were gradual. Maybe it would have been better to start counting from that first almost kiss, but that hadn't been altogether sudden, now had it?

He could see the wheels and cogs working in Potter's brain. "Four months?" he nearly spat. "You've wanted to kiss her for four months?"

He had? "So it would seem. Maybe a bit less." What month had it been when he'd touched her lips that first time on the stairs? October or November?

Potter looked at him skeptically. "Then I suppose you've at least showed some… restraint."

"You do realize you're not her father, don't you?" That one earned him an eye-roll.

"Her dad isn't here. Neither is yours, I see."

Draco found himself standing. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Potter didn't even flinch. "What I mean is, if your father were… around, you wouldn't have even thought of pulling something like this! Hermione deserves someone who'd fight for her. Not a bloody coward like you."

Draco growled, his face growing steadily warmer. "What do you want from me, anyway? I will fight for her if that's what you're getting at!"

There was a moment of hesitation. "You would?" He would?

"Sure." Why not? That hole he was digging was pretty deep as it was, why not add another foot?

"Sure isn't good enough. Hermione was beating herself up over this earlier, and I don't like to see her hurt. You, on the other hand, have been known for the opposite." Potter's eyebrows lowered. "So you either do this the right way or you don't do this at all."

"Stop speaking in moralistic code!"

Potter's expression changed, subtly at first, and it honestly took a Slytherin to tell the difference. And it was a Slytherin difference. He looked, dare Draco think it, devious. "Either ask her out properly and make it official, Ron knowing and all, or back off and leave her alone."

This was a test. Who knew Potter was cocky enough to take the risk? Potter was betting, and with great odds in his favor, that Draco would be too chicken to do anything of the sort. Weasley was likely to kill him, throttle him in his sleep and leave his carcass in a state of mutilation for all to point at and gasp—or laugh, more like, he thought glumly. And even without the threat of the weasel, there were still a few other things to think about:

Even if his mother had told him to take whatever made him happy, that didn't mean she wouldn't be severely disappointed in him if he did.

He would still be going against everything he'd been raised to believe.

He'd be beyond tarnishing what little he had left of his reputation. He'd be leaving it in the desert sun to shrivel up and die.

And there was always the great possibility that Granger wouldn't even say yes if he did ask her out.

Why did that last one seem to be the scariest factor of all?

Draco mentally weighed the pros and cons, and the cons seemed to be winning. However, there was still the matter of wiping that self-satisfied smirk off of Potter's vainglorious face, and, what's more, another matter that Draco didn't want to admit. A matter that felt as if he'd be losing something vital if he gave up now, something like a piece of a certain blood-pumping muscle.

"Fine, then." That particular muscle was pounding hard now, pumping blood at a spectacular rate, up to his head and down through his extremities in a fantastic pulsing rush. "I'll ask her out."

O

A.N.: Did you see that one coming? Also, I somehow managed to get a couple nominations at the Dramione Awards! Check out the link on my profile. It's all one-shots and art this round. If whoever nominated me is reading this, thanks!