25. Yes, No, Maybe, So?

Eight and Eighth—Chapter 25—Yes, No, Maybe… So?

Forty-three seconds. Granger had held his hand for forty-three seconds after they left the Headmistress's office. He wasn't even sure she realized she was doing it—not that he was complaining. This was what he wanted, wasn't it? Well, maybe not exactly. Handholding was for those blokes who liked to send their current heartthrob flowers, which he….

Never mind.

Still, he wasn't complaining. Any physical contact with her was good reason not to complain. It was merely that he'd prefer more physical contact.

One step at a time, old boy.

She'd finally let go as they parted for their respective classes, but as he took his seat in Astronomy, something felt off. At first he thought it was only his imagination—but there it was again. One pair of eyes, then another… trained on him for the briefest of seconds until….

"My brother Marvin said that his friend Olaf said that he heard from a Third Year that Peeves said that you and Hermione Granger were snogging in an alcove." The speaker was a skinny red-haired girl who looked nothing like any of the Weasleys and had never spoken to him in his life. "Is that true?"

"No." Well, it wasn't! He wished. However, there must have been something off about the inflection in his voice because the nameless ginger-girl had the audacity to grin at him.

"Oh, really?" She turned to her friends, and they all started twittering together, glancing back at him and giggling.

Didn't anyone fear him anymore? Two years ago and that could've gotten them put on a hit list—or at the very least he could have sent Pansy after them, armed with her longest set of fake fingernails and her lackluster spell-knowledge.

"Yes, really," he interrupted them, even though Sinistra was already beginning to hand back their star-charts.

Red turned around again, giving him an "Oh, come now" look of superior patience. "Are you calling my brother a liar? You do know who he is, don't you? He's a beater on the Hufflepuff house team. Huge."

Was she threatening him, now? "Of course I don't know who your brother is," Draco found himself saying. "I don't know who you are!"

She blinked at him three times. "I'm Ribbon Winhowser." She said this as if it were meant to mean something. Who did she think she was? Harry Potter?

"Ribbon?" he questioned. "Your name is Ribbon?"

"Yes," she replied. "Winhowser."

"What the," Draco swore, "is that supposed to mean to me?" he nearly screeched, just narrowly missing the necessary decibel that would have made Sinistra make a 360 degree turnabout.

Ribbon actually laughed. "My mother is Merryweather Winhowser—the gossip columnist for Witch Weekly," she added helpfully.

"How on Earth did your brother end up named Marvin?"

"You're one to talk!" she said, looking less amused now. "And I'd watch it if I were you! Maybe I won't send Marvin after you. Maybe I'll send Mother after you!" She sniffed and turned around in her seat, so that her ponytail was facing him.

Oh, Merlin, no! Witch Weekly? Gossip rag to end them all?

That couldn't be good.

Where were Pansy and her fake nails when he needed them?

O

The excitement of being offered her dream job—well, perhaps not her dream job, exactly, but it was pretty high up on her list of preferred occupations—had worn off some by the time Hermione had gone to lunch, to be replaced with a dull stomach ache.

Malfoy'd been offered the Potions position. Frankly, it sounded like McGonagall'd offered it to him out of pity. He was good at Potions. Okay, so he was pretty good at every subject now that he'd taken it upon himself to compete with her. But was he really that good? She supposed he couldn't be any less pleasant as an instructor than Snape had been, and goodness knew he was better groomed. Younger students might even drool after him.

What bothered her wasn't so much that he'd been asked but that there were certain consequences surrounding the fact that he'd been asked. If she did say yes to him… and they taught together…. Did she really want an office romance with him? It just made it all so much messier, especially when they inevitably broke up.

The longer she put off making her decision about him, the more confused she became. She shouldn't be considering it at all. She should say no.

But why, really, should she say no? He was right. This was the ultimate show of tolerance. An ex-death eater pureblood elitist and, well, her.

Besides. She liked him, as odd as it was to admit it. He'd bloody-well grown on her.

Oh, but the hypocrisy! Every time she came close to deciding to hang it all and say yes—the hypocrisy! No to Ron but yes to Dark Mark Boy? If she should be deciding to date anyone right now, it should be someone with whom she had a completely clean slate.

But he was pretty.

Had she just thought that?

"Hermione, you all right?" Harry asked, shoveling a spoonful of butternut squash into his mouth.

She sighed. "I just have a lot on my mind." She'd been about to say that there was a lot on her plate, but considering her literal lunch plate was still empty, it seemed like an odd choice of metaphor. "I think I might go home this weekend. I've got some things I'd like to mull over with my mum."

Harry gave her a thoughtful look, his head tilting to the side. "Nice flower," he commented, and Hermione's face turned completely red. She'd almost forgotten she was still wearing the white violet Malfoy'd given her.

"Thanks," she said slowly.

Harry turned his head to look over at the Slytherin table, and Hermione followed his gaze. "Think carefully, okay?" he said.

"Okay."

O

Pretty? Hermione thought to herself again, sitting and facing Malfoy in Good Grief class. Amorell'd taken them to a whole new level today. They were to stare into their partner's eyes for the entire class.

It was just as unnerving and awkward as it sounded. And boring.

He wasn't exactly pretty, per se. He wasn't bad-looking either. His chin was still too pointed, even if having his hair gel-free helped balance his looks. She already knew his looks didn't revolt her. Far from it. He just wasn't pretty.

Pretty average, maybe. Better-looking than Ron, maybe. She was in some serious denial, maybe.

There was a twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he was trying not to smirk, and then—he stuck his tongue out at her, just slightly.

She squirmed.

He winked.

She scowled.

"Isn't this fun?" he whispered.

"Loads."

He grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling, but then, just as quickly, the grin was gone. "We need to talk." Technically, they weren't supposed to be talking at all at the moment, but Amorell was currently distracted by a hornet hovering around the classroom, and she was trying to wingardium leviosa it out the window.

Hermione nodded, almost imperceptibly. "Monday."

"Next Monday?" he asked, his voice rising just a speck in alarm. "Why then?"

"Why is that a problem?" she countered.

He seemed reluctant to say anything more with the rest of the class so nearby, and at first she didn't think he'd answer at all. "Sunday," he stressed.

Sunday? Hermione's mind whipped about, trying to think of what the significance of Sunday was. And then she promptly felt like an imbecile. Sunday was Valentine's Day. And Malfoy had remembered while she hadn't.

"You want to be my Valentine?" she whispered incredulously. Something was very wrong with the world if Draco Malfoy was subscribing to being that romantic.

Malfoy rolled his eyes before jerking his head in Ron's direction.

Oh…. There was a second significance to Sunday, as it turned out. Ron would be away at a game that day. Well, in that case, perhaps she shouldn't go home next weekend, not if Ron would be so conveniently indisposed. Whatever her decision turned out to be, it would be better if Ron weren't around.

"Sunday, then. I'll give you my answer Sunday."

On Valentine's Day.

No pressure there. Oh, no. None at all.

O

Hermione had thought that six days would be plenty, more than enough even, to get herself sorted, but she found herself blinking awake at five in the morning on That Day, feeling groggy, confused, and appallingly undecided.

What was wrong with her? Since when was she this indecisive? And about a boy, no less.

Well, they'd just have to hash it out, that was all. She rolled over, burying her head between her pillows and unintentionally kicking Crookshanks in the process. The tomcat growled and jumped from the bed to go scratch at the door, asking to be let out.

"Shut that blooming fur ball up," Padma grumbled, sounding half-asleep, which was further evidenced by the fact that her next statement was: "I don't want to babysit, Parv!"

Hermione got up and stumbled to the door, letting Crookshanks out into the black stairwell before climbing back into her nice, warm bed. Her pillow felt so cozy under her head, but it seemed she'd already woken up just a bit too much to be able to shut her brain off again. She hated it when that happened.

If it wasn't a certain yes or a no, then it was a maybe. So… what did that mean? Lots of lovely snogging, her exhausted brain responded.

Huh? That wasn't what it meant. It meant… meant something. Oh, but she was so sleepy. Her eyelids felt like they were made out of lead instead of tissue.

She was asleep before she could finish making sense of her thoughts.

O

Draco was frankly amazed that he hadn't witnessed anymore evidence of Peeves's gossip spreading other than a few odd glances in his direction. Maybe that Ribbon girl had given him up for a bad job… or maybe he just hadn't waited enough and he'd be on the cover of Witch Weekly, most likely in a photo taken at his father's Kiss.

He pushed a hand through his hair, trying to get that particular train of thought out of his head.

It was Sunday at last, and hopefully St. Valentine would do him a favor and guilt a certain young lady into saying yes, if only because turning him down today would be cruel and unusual.

He'd gotten up early to "take a bath," procuring a flower. Why not? It didn't seem to be detracting from her opinion of him, even if with every flower he made in that bathtub, it felt like another piece of his manhood had just sunk down the drain. He'd been torn between a purple columbine and a figwort, and he'd ultimately gone with the former because the word figwort didn't exactly inspire anyone to wax poetic. Besides, why speak of "future joys" when he could be "resolved to win"?

He hoped she didn't take that the wrong way. He didn't want it to look like this was just a game to him—not that he'd mind if she gave him a nasturtium for resignation.

On second thought, resignation? Not the best word to use.

Weasley had gotten up and left at four in the morning, yet another reason for Draco to give up any dreams of becoming a famous Quidditch player. He actually liked his sleep.

The Common Room was quiet when he sat down on the couch at half past seven. There was a fire in the fireplace, the blaze crackling in a calming sort of way. He'd been sitting there with a book for no more than ten minutes when Granger's mangy cat appeared out of nowhere and started sniffing his feet.

Draco'd always been indifferent to cats. He wasn't really an animal person, but he could abide them well enough—just as long as they didn't happen to be hippogriffs or, frankly, anything living in the Forbidden Forest besides unicorns.

Granger's cat apparently found Draco's toes intriguing, and the cat sat down on its hindquarters to stare up at him for a moment before jumping onto the couch beside him, matted tail waving.

"May I help you?" Draco asked rhetorically, watching as the cat first placed a paw on Draco's leg and then proceeded to lay down on top of his hands, which had been holding his book up.

The cat just looked at him for a moment before starting to lick itself.

And that was precisely the position Granger found them in as she entered the common room half a second later. She stood back, an expression of surprise on her face. "Did you pick him up?" she asked, looking flabbergasted.

"No. He just decided he thought I'd make a good chair." Draco tried to dislodge one of his arms, but the cat issued a low growl, which turned into a deep purr as soon as Draco stopped fidgeting. "Is he always so… forward?" he asked. The cat wasn't exactly well-groomed or cute, and frankly, having the thing on his lap wasn't precisely what he'd call a treat.

"Not at all." Granger took the seat beside him, hesitated a moment, and picked the cat off of his lap and replaced it on her own. She stroked the furry thing behind the ears a few times, looking awestruck. "Crookshanks is… special," she said at last. "He trusts you!" she added, her eyebrows furrowing.

Draco gave the cat a cursory look. What an unusual cohort. Pity he hadn't thought of gaining her favor through her pet any earlier. He set his book aside before offering her the flower, which she took with her free hand.

"Columbine," he said, and she nodded silently.

She bit her lip for a moment, hesitating before looking him in the eye. "Where have you been getting these anyway? They can't all be coming from the Greenhouses. I've checked."

Draco felt his throat close up for just a moment. He should have known she'd ask sooner or later. "Honestly?" he asked.

"If you would."

He squeezed his eyes closed for a moment. He couldn't help but feel slightly wary. But maybe bestowing some trust in her would offer her some proof of his loyalty, that he wasn't just having her on. "I made it," he admitted.

She quirked an eyebrow. "How? You can only use magic in class during the scheduled class time, and that first flower you gave me was on Christmas."

He swallowed. "I found a loophole."

O

"Loophole?" Hermione asked, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable. He wasn't to use magic outside of classes whatsoever, which meant he'd been breaking the law. If the Ministry found out….

He nodded slowly. "I don't know why, and I found out by accident. See…" he looked embarrassed, "I can use magic in the bathtub."

She blinked. What? "What?"

"Well," he corrected, shifting in his seat. "Not the whole bathtub. Pretty much just between the drain and the faucet."

She had to stop and squint for a moment. "So that's why Harry said you'd gotten that one flower from the loo!" she stated, and she covered her mouth and snorted. "From the bathtub?" she asked, fighting off a laugh.

He looked slightly less worried now, if not intrigued by her reaction. "Bathtub magic," he confirmed.

Hermione settled back, giving Crookshanks an extra-good scratch under the chin. "Must be the metal."

"Hmm?"

"Your manacle. It's probably counteracted by the opposing forces of the metal in the faucet and in the drain." She shrugged. "It's all to do with polarity and magnetism. And magides," she added.

"That's it? That's the big mystery? Metal?"

"Pretty much, yes. You could probably do the same with the sink." She grinned. How funny.

Malfoy shifted so that he was sitting cross-legged, facing her. "Well, now that's settled and it doesn't look like you'll be turning me in…." He gave her a meaningful look.

"You want to know my answer," she concluded. She sighed, moving Crookshanks onto the floor and resting her head in her hand, looking at him askance. He stared right back at her, the epitome of expectation. "Why do you want to date me?" she finally asked.

"Why?" He paused, and she could tell she'd caught him off-guard. "Well, why'd you want to date Weasley?" he countered.

She rolled her eyes, groaning. "For one, I liked him. He was my friend."

"Ditto and ditto," Malfoy replied, leaning in slightly.

"And… I was attracted to him."

"Ditto." Malfoy gave her a rather obvious leer, looking her up and down and making her blush.

"And," she stumbled, feeling the heat rising in her cheeks, "I cared about him."

"Ditto."

"And I guess I thought we'd be good together."

"D-I-double T-O." Malfoy looked slightly smug. "And what made you not want to be with him?" He very well knew about August.

"Mostly? I couldn't imagine a future with him anymore."

Malfoy closed his eyes and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. "And I guess that's where you're mostly stuck about deciding about me, isn't it?" She nodded once. "Too bad I can't use that prophecy as evidence, eh?" he asked, though he looked more bothered than amused.

"Look," he said, and he took up one of her hands in his. "I can't guarantee the future, but I can tell you that I am serious about this. I'm not going to leave you the second I've got this manacle off, and…" he frowned, "you know I'm not going to be accepted back into my old circles any time soon, so what reason would I ever have to leave you?" He paused as if waiting for her to answer.

"I guess… not a whole lot of reason," she said uncomfortably. "But if we decide we aren't suited?" she asked.

He smirked lopsidedly at her. "Isn't that what dating is for? I'm asking you to be my girlfriend here, Granger. Hermione," he added, flinching as he corrected himself. "Not asking you to elope." She blushed. The very idea…. Oy. "I just want a chance. You can always finish things if you want to. So… please?"

That please. That same please he'd used before he'd kissed. "Y-you're sure want this?" she asked, feeling strangely dizzy.

"Positive." He squeezed her hand.

Hermione closed her eyes for a long time, just trying to breathe again. "Okay." She opened her eyes to find him sitting closer than he had been before.

"Thank you," he said, sounding genuinely relieved. And he kissed her. Her boyfriend, Draco Malfoy, kissed her in the middle of their common room on Valentine's morning, one hand cradling the base of her head, the other squeezing her hand.

The moment was only slightly ruined by the intake of breath at the top of the stairs, and they paused to see Hannah standing there looking entirely blown away. "You weren't kidding!"

No, Hermione definitely was not.

So… now what?

O

A.N.: We're now approaching the 80,000 word minimum I originally decided to make for this story. At least, we are on some of the sites I post to. There's a rather wide discrepancy. In any case, this story's not over yet. I want to make it to the end of their school year. In short: no clue how many more chapters, but we're definitely in the homeward stretch.