Chapter Eight

Hermione lay in bed, completely unable to sleep, despite the last two hours of tossing and turning in a vain attempt to do so. She let out a noise between a grunt and a groan, frustrated beyond all belief. Flipping over onto her back, she dimly thought that it was altogether possible that she would never sleep again; between the nightmares and now, Draco Bloody Malfoy.

She let out a slight giggle at that thought. Yes, that would be his new name, perhaps even Draco the Prat Malfoy, or even Draco the Ferret Malfoy. Either way, dubbing him with less that charitable names made her feel a little better. Considering how her entire life had been disrupted by his appearance in Professor McGonagall’s office, she had to take her pleasures, however small, where she could.

It would be much easier to hate him like she should if he hadn’t changed. He wasn’t nearly the same as he was when they were in school together, and if he were, she would be sleeping like a baby right now. As it was, his infuriatingly handsome arse of a self had her in a right state of confusion, and try as she might, she couldn’t figure out what to do about it. She had spent so many years loathing his existence, along with Harry and Ron, that she was at a loss.

Lavender had always admired him, she knew that much. Besides the fact that she had dallied around with him last year, she had spent hours watching him in their classes and making comments to Hermione, Ginny, even Harry and Ron, that he couldn’t be half as bad as he seemed.

Hermione cracked a smile as she remembered Ron’s reply to Lavender’s insistence that Malfoy wasn’t all bad. In true character, Ron had screwed up his face into one of his telling expressions, you could always tell exactly what he was thinking by his face, and had said, “Of course not. I’m sure he’s a wonderful person, you know, when he’s not being an evil git.”

Ruffled, Lavender had told him to sod off, right though Ginny and Hermione’s giggles, along with Harry’s chuckle at Ron’s words. No one had ever mentioned to Ron again about how Malfoy might not be all bad again.

Now, Hermione was catching herself wondering if her friend might have been right, even though Lavender might disagree with her previous assessment now. Of course, Hermione had more data to go on now, after all, Malfoy had stood against you-know-who, and he had been almost tolerable lately.

Almost, that is. Whatever had possessed him to pin her to the wall the other night eluded her, confused her all to hell, and then, totally made her angry. Bloody, bloody fucking hell, she had wanted him to kiss her. She would have probably vomited if he had tried, but the fact remained that being that close to him, his icy blue eyes and chiseled jaw had affected her, not to mention how she had noticed how firm his body was as she was sandwiched between him and the wall. Damn it! How could she allow herself to be attracted to him? How, after all the hell she had been through because of him?

Forcing herself to stop thinking about him, Hermione turned her attention to getting some bloody sleep. She fell into a fitful slumber, not expecting what would be awaiting her when the nightmares yet again forced her to awaken.

---

Draco strolled past Hermione’s portrait, wondering how she was getting along. It was well past bedtime, the corridors were deserted, save Mrs. Norris, of course, and as the cat stalked past him, he wondered how the old flea-bitten feline was still alive. Weren’t cats supposed to drop dead after ten or fifteen years? Hell if he knew. He supposed she was a magically enhanced flea-bitten feline, eyed where the Countess usually sat one last time and kept moving, stopping and turning around when she reappeared and cleared her throat.

“Professor,” the Countess said haughtily. “She’s having those horrid dreams again.”

“Is she?” he replied, gritting his teeth against the slight swooping he felt in his stomach at her words. He hated the fact that she was having such a hard time, and that feeling confused him.

“Yes,” she replied. “I thought you’d like to go in and check on her.”

“I can,” he answered. “And you’ll just let me in?”

“Of course,” she replied. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“I hope you don’t go letting other people in just as easily,” he answered.

“I can let you in,” the Countess answered. “You’re here to protect her, aren’t you?”

“What do you mean?” he inquired, shocked. How did the Countess know that?

“I heard Professor McGonagall and Minister Dumbledore talking,” she answered. “I know that you’re here to protect her.”

“I’d appreciate if you kept that bit quiet,” he said. “I don’t think that Granger would take that very well.”

“I’d dare say that she wouldn’t,” she agreed. “Which is why I haven’t told her.” With those final words, the portrait swung open, before Draco had the chance to thank her.

She was in bed, he heard her quiet moans from the door, and his heart clenched. She sounded terrified, and as he walked over to her bed, she sat up suddenly, panting, her eyes flying open.

“Bloody hell!” she screeched. “Malfoy, what in the hell are you doing in here?”

“The Countess let me in,” he replied. “She was worried, she said you were having those dreams again.”

“I was,” she replied, blinking. “But I would appreciate it if you would have her wake me before you come blundering in here. I mean, by the gods, I don’t like waking up and seeing someone standing over me.”

Draco understood, he supposed that was sort of odd, him just popping in here, unless the alarm sounded, that is. But, he wasn’t going to tell her that part.

“Point taken,” he answered. “Sorry.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “All right,” she said finally. “Thank you for checking on me, I’m fine, good night.”

Draco ignored her. He sat down on the edge of her bed instead, a small pang of some feeling he couldn’t really identify shooting through him when she glared at him, tightened the covers around her body and scooted away from him slightly.

“You’re acting like you’re afraid of me again,” he pointed out.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she replied. “And don’t go spouting off that non-sense about how I wanted you to kiss me. I’m tired, and I want to sleep.”

“What are the dreams like, Hermione?” he asked, making sure his voice was quiet and as unassuming as possible.

“Stop calling me that,” she hissed though clenched teeth.

“It’s your name, isn’t it?” he replied, aware that it was a cheeky reply, but that really couldn’t be helped.

“Of course it is,” she answered. “We’re not on a first name basis, Malfoy, and we never have been.”

“You called me by my first name,” he said, as she screwed up her face slightly.

“I did not,” she argued. “I never have, and I don’t plan on it.”

“You most certainly did,” he countered. “When you asked me for your wand back.”

“Please get out of my room,” she answered, now positively glowering at him. “And while you’re at it, quit making things up.”

“Quit avoiding the question,” he replied. “Fess up, Hermione…” Yes, he said that just to get under her skin, and by the look on her face, it worked. “What are the dreams about?”

“I don’t know,” she replied. “I can’t remember them once I wake up. Now, will you please leave?”

“Are they about the Dark Lord?” he prodded, as he face turned white as a sheet. He was either right on, or she was unbelievably angry with him, he couldn’t really tell.

“I’ve already told you that I don’t know,” she shot back. “And why do you call him that? Only Death Eaters call him that.”

“Professor Snape calls him that,” Draco said, his anger rising.

“Professor Snape was a Death Eater,” she answered. “And if you’re not, then stop calling him that, it makes me uncomfortable.”

“Fine,” he replied. “Are they about Voldemort?”

“Why are you saying his name?” she demanded, the covers falling away as she let go of them and pounded her fists on the bed.

“He’s dead!” Draco said in a near shout. “What in the hell is the difference?”

“HE MIGHT NOT STAY DEAD!” she shrieked. “He has a really bad habit of showing up at the slightest warning…” he voice, now much quieter, trickled off.

“Ah,” he replied. “So they are about him.”

“Malfoy, leave me alone. You’re the last person in the world that I’d ever confide in, so please GET OUT OF MY ROOM!”

“That’s right, Granger, no one else is allowed to give a rip about you, other than Potter and Weasley, of course. Damn it! I’m trying to bloody well help you, and you are the most difficult woman I have ever met!”

“I don’t want your help, Malfoy,” she replied, her voice deathly quiet. Her eyes had darkened to a dangerous color, bubbling anger, a stark contrast to her pale white skin. “And stop pretending that you care. I know for a fact that you’re worried about yourself, not me, so sod off!”

“How can you say that I’m worried about myself?” he demanded. “What in the hell does this have to do with me? I should care less about your problems, Granger, but the truth is…” Well, there went his nerve. Draco clamped his mouth shut and tried to ignore his pounding heart.

“What?” she asked. “Go ahead, tell me the truth of it, then.”

“Nothing,” he muttered. “I can’t talk to you while you’re being… yourself, you silly twit.”

“I’m a silly twit?” she echoed. “You’re the idiot that burst into my room without a damned invitation. Get out, now, before you regret ever speaking to me again.”

“Fine,” he replied, standing up, his fists balled at his sides. Hell, she got to him more than any person he knew. Right about now, he wanted to throttle her. “Don’t come crying to me when you need someone, Granger, because I won’t be there!” And that was all bluster, and he knew it. He had no choice but to be there, he was too worried about her at this point to do anything else.

“Thank you!” she replied. “All I want is for you to leave me alone!”

“Gladly!” he retorted, and left her sitting there in bed. He was in his own room, throwing back a shot of firewhiskey before he started to calm down. What in the bloody hell was he going to do about that woman? He had half a mind to contact bloody Potter and tell him to deal with her himself, but he didn’t, he merely lay down in bed and tried to get some sleep.

He had almost succeeded in getting to sleep when his mind, damn it, settled on Granger, yet again. She had looked almost fetching sitting there in her bed, the covers pulled around her, not quite concealing her gauzy white nightgown. Now, it wouldn’t have been quite normal if he hadn’t noticed the way the gown… hugged her body, now would it? Hell, it would have been strange if he hadn’t. Now, was he going to sit here and try to explain to himself exactly why his body had betrayed him, yet again? No, he wouldn’t even bother. Draco was beyond confused; he couldn’t even begin to understand what was happening to him where Granger was concerned.

He wouldn’t have wasted a moment’s thought about it if he only felt a physical attraction to her. He had always found her slightly intriguing, even when she was driving him mad while they were in school together, and she certainly had grown into her looks. She was still petite, fine-boned and as curvy as he had remembered from the last time he had seen her, but now, there was something else about her. The thing that had Draco throwing back another slug of firewhiskey before he could stop himself was that he couldn’t put his finger on exactly what.

Her hair had changed, that was one thing. It wasn’t a bushy mess like it had been when they were younger, and he scent, well; it could best be described as jasmine and vanilla. He had thought honey at first, but tonight he had pinned it down. Most definitely jasmine and vanilla. Oh, bloody hell. And on top of it all… he was actually worried about her. How had that happened? One minute, she as snapping his head off and he wanted to snap her neck, and the next minute he had the insane idea to pin her against the wall and kiss her silly. Damn, damn, damn, and here he was still sitting, thinking about her.

Draco let out a dry laugh. Wasn’t this just wonderful, here he was, the only child of the most influential pureblood family in the wizarding world, and all he could think about was Hermione the mudblood Granger. And now, he felt like an ass for even ever thinking of her on such disgusting terms. What in the living mortal hell was going on here? Hell if he knew, but he wasn’t sure he really liked it. It was fucking everything up royally, this strange… infatuation he had with her. He had to cure himself of it, and fast. The question was, how was he going to do that?

---

The Yule Ball was tonight, and as Draco walked to the hall, he was mentally running through how he was going to keep watch on Granger, without everything getting more screwed up then it already was. He needed desperately to regain a little… prudence where she was involved, and not become all caught up in her presence. He couldn’t understand how it had turned out that all he’d been able to think of lately was how he wanted to kiss her that night. Gods, he had to cure himself of that.

When he walked into the great hall and saw her, however, his mouth went completely dry and his knees felt weak. She was chatting with Professor McGonagall, and she looked more beautiful than he had ever seen her. She was wearing a dark green gown made of velvet, its style fitting and off her shoulders, the contrast of the deep color and her creamy skin startling, to say the least. He noticed for a long moment that he was unable to tear his eyes away from her, and just when he had managed to find the strength to look away, she looked up at him. Their eyes met and he had trouble breathing for a second, and finally, his heart leapt as she gave him a small smile.

Draco wasn’t sure where the smile had come from, it was either her way of patronizing him or she wasn’t as irritated at him as she made out to be, but either way, it struck a cord in him that was hard to deny. Damn it, he was going to march over there and say something to her, and hope that it didn’t turn into a fight. He didn’t want to argue with her tonight.

He had just made it over to her when Professor McGonagall whisked away, giving Draco a knowing raised-eyebrow glance as she drifted to the head table.

“Malfoy,” Hermione said, the small smile still present on her face.

“Granger,” he replied, recovering himself enough to give her a slight grin. “How are you?”

“Fine,” she replied, waving her hand in the air. “We should take our seats,” she said. “I think Professor McGonagall is planning on saying a few words.”

“If we must,” he answered. “But later, Hermione, you and I are going to have a dance.”

“We are?” she asked, her voice a little mocking. “Aren’t you supposed to be a gentleman and ask properly?”

“Probably,” he drawled, his grin deepening. “But I’ve never been much of a gentleman, have I?”

“No, you haven’t,” she agreed, much to his amusement.

“We’ll have our dance, Granger,” he said. “Mark my words.”

Draco could tell by the look on her face that she did in fact, mark his words, but he wouldn’t have been able to tell that she would agree to dance with him if it hadn’t been for the slight twinkle in her eyes, and he intended to take advantage of the opportunity, even if he knew that he shouldn’t.