Saving You

Waiting for Fate

Hermione bit her lip and shut her eyes tight. God, she didn't want to hear any more. She didn't want to know any more. Each new puzzle piece that fell into place felt like a knife plunging into her heart.

She tried to sleep. But Harry's words haunted her. There's nothing to do about this Malfoy business. The snake is going to do what he's going to do...

The snake... the Death Eater...

Hermione turned under the cool sheets of Neville's old bed.

A year ago, what Draco Malfoy was or planned to be wouldn't have mattered. They'd each had their places on opposite sides of the tracks—not enemies anymore, exactly, but strangers, ones that resented what they didn't understand. They kept their old perceptions and opinions, never once reevaluating, never considering that there was any need to. They stayed out of each other's way, floating past each other every once in a while, but never thinking to meet gazes, never thinking to care; one never wondering if the other wasn't floating at all, but drowning in the vastness of the murky sea around them.

But somehow, the tide had changed. The cold waters had found some sun, and the line in the sand had been washed away by warmer waves. For whatever reason, Draco Malfoy had finally noticed her drifting by. He had seen her sinking, and had saved her from the dark depths.

And it had changed everything. Right and wrong, so clear before, were blended together now, until there was no arrow to follow, no moral compass to be her guide. Nothing was as certain as it had been—what she should do, what she should want...

Because she did want him... without dignity, without reserve. She wanted to be with him, to be held in his arms—even if it meant bearing the cold and cutting glances that followed. Even if he didn't always want her, too.

The thought had the events of the previous afternoon replaying in her mind. She remembered the way Draco's lips had moved against hers, the way his body had pressed hers into the wall of that spare classroom, so harsh and heated and unrestrained. She remembered how he'd pushed her away, first with his hands and then with his words, remembered the icy glare and the disapproving tone, remembered feeling them like the crash that came after the high, like the slap that came when least expected.

She wished to God she could figure him out. He was hot one minute and cold the next. He could be so careful, so tender—and then so abrupt and so indifferent. He was like a box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans: at times, heartbreakingly sweet; at times, heartbreakingly sour. With him, she was always taking a chance—half the time to be met with the cold shoulder.

Could she love him? Could she trust him? He hadn't given her much justification to do either. There was so much inside of him—darkness, certainly, but also light...

At least, there were glimpses of light. But they were becoming more and more fleeting as the days drew on, darkening at a whim, blackening into night. The closer she got to him, the farther away she seemed to be. And the harder she tried, the more it hurt her when she failed. The more he hurt her.

Harry's words were there again, hanging over her like a fog.

There's nothing to do... Nothing to do...

And she knew that she had to keep trying, because no one else was going to. They had all accepted the unacceptable—her friends, his friends... even him. They were too comfortable doing what they'd always done—watching him float by, not meeting his gaze, not caring, not stopping him as he let himself drown.

Well, Hermione wasn't about to turn the other cheek. Draco Malfoy had pulled her from the undertow. He had saved her from herself. And now it was time to return the favor.