:::Dance with Me:::
Days passed. The pressure of the future, the uncertainty of it, weighed heavily on both Hermione and Draco. November 1st loomed like an execution date over both of their heads, and though they tried to live despite the dread, they couldn't escape the growing awareness that time was running out.
It was late in the night. Hermione was curled in close against him, her head lying comfortably on his shoulder. Their hands were joined together and resting over his heart. Draco could feel it pounding, the solemn beat of a war drum, and wondered if she could feel it, too. He could smell her hair, that light, floral scent that had become so familiar. Though he'd slept without that scent for most of his life, he wasn't sure he'd ever grow used to not having it once it was gone again.
She was asleep. He could hear her slow, even breathing through the silence, the sound methodic, melodic, like the whisper of the wind against the autumn leaves. But Draco was wide-awake, and not even the sweet sound of her breath breezing in and out or the feel of her body next to his could lull him to sleep. He was too aware of the nothing that awaited him in the coming days. Brief flashes of his future kept flickering before his eyes, and everything he saw was black and bleak and cold as ice. It chilled him even now, knowing that in a few short days, he'd no longer be able to hold her like this—that he'd no longer be able to protect her, that he'd be a danger to her instead.
His fingers tightened around hers, his thumb caressing her wrist in circles. The skin there was smooth, soft, like stroking the petal of rose. He looked down to where their hands were joined, to the place where her palm flowed into her forearm. There was a tiny blue vein running through, barely visible against her translucent skin. He rubbed his thumb across it, wondering. How many scars sliced through it underneath the spell? Had she already cut there? Or would his slash be the first?
The thought that underneath the magic, one scar would be his doing had sickness churning in Draco's stomach. He hated that he would have to hurt her, that he would have to add to the lines that crisscrossed over her body—hated that once he did, it would make him no better than the sick bastard who had provoked all the other ones.
"What are you doing?" Hermione's voice was whisper-soft and serious.
Draco didn't look away from her wrist to see if her eyes had opened. It took a long time for him to answer, and when he did, his voice was low.
"Deciding," he told her ominously.
Hermione tilted her chin to look up at him. His steel-grey eyes were intense on the skin at her wrist, as if trying to see past it to the flesh underneath.
Or maybe trying to see past the magic to where the jagged skin was raised and indented.
What had he decided… about her blood, about her? She didn't ask. Though she wanted—needed—to know, she didn't press him for more.
Slowly, she lowered her head back down to his shoulder, closing her eyes again.
The light stroking paused. "Aren't you going to ask me… what it is I have to decide?"
Hermione kept her eyes closed. "If you were going to tell me then you would have already," she said with a sigh. There was a pause. "I'd rather not talk about it, anyway," she added in a whisper.
There was a still, silent moment, and then she felt his thumb continue its light exploration of her skin. "Neither would I," she heard him say, just as soft.
Minutes passed by in solemn silence. Draco shifted, letting his chin come to rest against her hair. Her breathing had evened out again, and deepened, as if with sleep. "Are you still awake?" he asked hesitantly after a while.
Hermione's kept her brown eyes closed. "Yes."
Draco breathed in, and then out, inhaling her feminine scent. "What are you thinking about?"
Hermione felt herself smile. "You," she whispered back. And then the smile died on her lips. Her eyes opened again. "The future."
She felt his head turn away, felt his eyes leave her skin to stare through the glass and at the stars. "It's about to happen," he acknowledged after a moment, his voice emotionless.
Yes. The future was about to happen. Everything was about to end. What they had, what they wanted… all of it was quickly slipping through their fingers like sand. And there was nothing they could do but watch helplessly as the world fell from their grasp and slid down the drain forever.
Hermione looked up at him, her honey eyes trying to meet his silver ones through the darkness. "Don't talk about it," she begged him softly. "Don't think about it."
Maybe that would make it go away.
"I can't not."
"Try." Hermione extracted her hand from Draco's grasp and brought it up to his face, pushing a strand of white-blond hair from his eyes. "Just pretend." Pretend this isn't happening. Pretend that there's no tomorrow. Pretend that you'll never hurt me, that you'll hold me like this forever. Pretend that this moment will never end, that we'll never have to say goodbye.
Just pretend…
Draco shook his head, wishing he could. But the future was quickly becoming the present. And it wasn't something he could ignore. It wasn't something he could wish away.
Seeing the conflict inside of him, Hermione smiled sadly. "Just hold me," she commanded.
He did, taking her hand again, wrapping her tighter in his embrace.
Still, a question hung in the air above him, plaguing the silence, preventing both of them from sleep...
Would he ever hold her this way again?
Harry was in hell.
He'd always known Ginny's blue eyes could be deadly. He'd seen them shoot bullets hundreds of times—at a prissy girl who dared to try to talk down to her; at an opposing Beater who sent a Bludger her way; at a teacher who returned her exam with a poor mark—and now at a boy who had finally tried the last of her eternal patience.
She hadn't spoken to him since their confrontation in the Great Hall, had barely even spared him a glance. When she did condescend to look his way, it was with the wariest, most lightless of looks, full of accusation and bitterness and... something else. Something he couldn't quite pinpoint. Something that looked uncomfortably similar to disappointment.
He'd thought he'd wait it out, give her some time to cool off. But one day had turned into two. Two had turned into what seemed like a lifetime. He'd never gone this long without speaking to her, without seeing her smile charmingly his way. She had always been his rock—whatever was wrong, whatever war was being waged against him, she had always been right there, cracking a joke or whispering a reassuring word, trying to make him forget, trying to soothe his worries away. She had been the comforting confidant, the sassy, sweet sunshine that always brightened his cloudy days. She had never withheld from him—not anything, but especially not herself.
And he'd never realized how dependent he was on her unconditional support until she'd suddenly snatched it away.
He hunted her down before class, intent on sorting this all out. Things couldn't go on this way. He couldn't go on this way—without her.
He found her leaning against the wall in one busy corridor, laughing conspiratorially with a soft-smiling Hermione and the beautiful Gwen Carver. But when she looked up and met his gaze, the smile immediately slipped from her face and the light fell away from her eyes. "I should get going," she told her friends dully as he approached. "You know how McGonagall is about tardiness." She threw the shoulder strap of her bag over her head and strode forward—past Harry without a word.
Harry turned to Hermione, helplessly held up his hands. "Go after her," she mouthed, motioning him away with a wave of her hand.
Harry looked at the ceiling for a second before whirling and chasing the redheaded girl down. "Ginny!" he called. She didn't stop, didn't even glance over her shoulder. "Come on, Ginny." He caught up, coming around her, halting her in her tracks. "Just wait a sec."
Ginny looked at him listlessly. "Harry Potter wants me to wait. What a surprise."
The words had Harry shaking his head. "I can't do this," he told her exasperatedly.
"What is 'this' exactly?"
"This!" Harry said, motioning emphatically between them. "The tension, the snappy comments, the cold shoulder—I could take them from anyone else but you." She didn't soften, didn't even answer, only continued to at him with those blue—and unusually unsympathetic—eyes. "We've never not talked before," he tried to reason with her. He dropped his hands, defeated. "I don't like it," he admitted.
It was meant to be a concession, but to Ginny, the words were just a reminder of why she'd become fed up in the first place. Their relationship always had to be on his terms. When she didn't like the way things were between them, she was supposed to just let it go, supposed to just paste on a smile, grit her teeth and bear it. But when the situation was reversed, and he was unhappy, she was supposed to jump through hoops to make him comfortable again.
Well, she was tired of being the uncomfortable one. She was tired to being understanding and supportive—she was tired of being patient. She couldn't wait anymore. She couldn't settle anymore. There was so much inside of her that she had to offer. She deserved someone who saw that, who respected that, someone who would do anything to keep that in his life. Someone who would give that much of himself in return. Half of Harry wasn't good enough anymore. 'Just friends' wasn't good enough. It was all or nothing. It was all up to him.
And he still didn't get it.
She shook her head. "I have to get to class." She began to walk around him, renewed purpose hastening her step.
Harry quickly followed. "Come on, Gin. Don't walk away." He walked alongside her, trying to keep up with her hurried stride. "Talk to me," he begged.
Ginny refused to stop, refused to look his way, to look anywhere but straight ahead. "I told you to come find me when you figured things out," she stated edgily, "and nothing about the way you've approached this conversation indicates to me that you've done so. I have to get to class."
Harry cut in front of her again, stopping her in her tracks. He put his hands up, cautioning her, trying to melt the frost in her eyes. "Look... I've been thinking about what you said," he told her seriously.
Ginny's eyes narrowed speculatively. "And?" she asked.
"And..." He furrowed his brows, took a deep breath. "I'm not blind, Ginny," he informed her quietly. "Just because I don't talk about something doesn't mean I don't know it's there." He looked into her hard blue eyes, beyond the ice to where the ocean depths were clear and enchanting. "It doesn't mean I don't feel it, too."
Ginny swallowed. "What exactly are you trying to say?" she asked him.
Harry looked at her. "That I'm sorry," he said at last.
"For what?"
Harry shrugged a reluctant shoulder. "For not being able to be there for you in the capacity you want me to be."
Ginny's gaze deadened at the words. "Oh," she said dully. She shook her head. "So that's it, then? That's what you chased me down to tell me? That you mulled it over and decided you're just not available?"
Harry frowned. "It sounds so cold when you put it like that."
"It isn't?" she demanded.
"Not at all," he tried to say. She only smiled crisply, causing him to avert his gaze. He brought it back to hers a second later. "It's just that we're already so close, Gin," he tried to reason. "Why ruin a good thing?"
"Because it could be great," she told him meaningfully. He only looked away again, bringing the edge back to her voice. "If you want to be alone, that's your prerogative," she informed him. "But don't expect me to be here pining after you. I'm going to go on living my life—with or without you."
"Good. That's what I want you to do," he replied, but the words lacked conviction.
Ginny looked at him doubtfully. "You really want me to be with somebody else, Harry? Because I can, you know."
Harry only shrugged one noncommittal shoulder.
But Ginny wasn't about to let him off that easy. "Dean asked me to the dance at breakfast," she pressed, watching carefully for his reaction. "I told him he'd have his answer by tonight." Harry said nothing, but that muscle in his jaw tensed, sending a wave of empowerment through her. "So, you see, I do have other options," she told him. "Whether I consider them or not is completely up to you."
Harry shook his head. "I wish it was that easy. But it's a lot more complicated than that."
Ginny let out an exasperated sound. "Then let me simplify it for you, Harry," she snapped. "I'm moving on," she told him. "It's now or never." And with that, she pushed past him and began to walk away
Harry watched her back as she stormed off, watched her hair bounce against her shoulders, watched her legs stride purposefully away. He could feel the distance between them growing with each new step. What had been merely a crack before seemed now like a chasm, widening, separating them further and further from each other.
She meant it, he realized in sudden panic. She would move on if he didn't stop her. This space between them would be permanent if he didn't close it.
And she would belong to someone else.
The unwanted thought had him suddenly desperate. "Come to the dance with me," he blurted out before she could get too far away.
The words stopped Ginny in her tracks. Slowly, cautiously, she turned back to face him. "What did you say?"
Harry came forward until he was right in front of her again. "Come to the dance with me," he said again, quieter.
Ginny looked uncertainly into his eyes. "You want to go... together?"
Harry nodded. "Yeah." And then he swallowed. "As friends."
The dare-to-hope look died down in Ginny's eyes. "As friends," she repeated dismally. She pasted on that flat, humorless smile. "Thanks for the offer, but I'm going to have to pass." She turned and began to walk away.
Panic resurfaced inside of Harry, and he grabbed her hand, halting her before she could get away. "Ginny." She dutifully paused, her blue eyes dull. Her hand was limp and defeated in his. "There's too much at stake," he told her, trying to make her understand. "It can't be now. But..." He shook his head, looked down to where there hands were joined together. "I... I don't want it to be never," he confessed after a moment. He looked up again. "I know you're frustrated. But please... just give me a little more time." His hand tightened around hers, and his eyes reached deep into her dark blue ones. "Wait," he pleaded meaningfully.
Ginny looked down at where his hand clutched desperately to hers. She knew she shouldn't let herself be moved, knew she shouldn't let herself be trapped into compromising for even one more day.
But how could she not, when his dark green eyes were begging her to understand, begging her to stay, to wait just a little bit longer...
Ginny turned her shoulders to face him fully. She took a deep breath. "Swear to me it won't be forever," she commanded quietly. She looked up. "Swear to me it won't be for nothing."
Harry swallowed. "I swear."
One long moment passed. And then she nodded. "Okay," she said finally. "You have yourself a date."
Harry smiled thinly, half in relief—and, secretly, half in regret. "So do you," he said. "See you after school."
This time he didn't try to stop her as she turned and began to walk away. He watched her back until it disappeared around a corner and out of sight, afraid that he'd just done a very selfish thing...
Afraid he'd made a promise he couldn't keep.
There was nothing Draco or Hermione could do to keep the days before the dance from flying by. It seemed like no time at all had passed before Halloween arrived, bringing with it all the dread of the day to follow after.
Hermione was greeted by a girlie squeal as she entered the Great Hall that morning. "Mione! Oh, Mione, isn't it wonderful?" Ginny gushed, hugging her close, then taking her hands and beginning to waltz with her. "The Halloween Dance is finally here—and there is going to be dancing, and music, and costumes..."
Hermione laughed, but the sound was bland, grim. She couldn't be excited. Her thoughts weren't on the dance the Prefects had helped her to arrange. Instead, they dwelled on tomorrow, when Draco would leave her to fly off into the abyss, never to return—at least, never to her.
It's about to happen… It's about to happen… The words were all around her, as if two little goblins sat on her shoulders, singing them in her ears. The truth had never felt so real as it did now. In the back of her mind, she hadn't let herself believe that this day would actually come. She hadn't let herself believe that the philosophical tomorrow that everyone talked about would actually be tomorrow. The future was here, and the outlook was grim. And it was all Hermione could do not to break down in tears this very moment.
Thankfully, the redheaded girl was too excited to notice. "And we finally both have our ideal dates," she laughed, squeezing Hermione's hands almost painfully. And then her smile faltered. "Well, it would be ideal, anyway, if only Harry hadn't made it a point to stamp 'just friends' all over everything."
"It's still ideal," Hermione assured her, smiling faintly to hide the fact that she was less than enthusiastic about her own date.
"It's the best it can be for right now," Ginny agreed. "So I've decided to be ecstatic." She began to twirl around with Hermione again.
"Yes, I can see that." The words came out a little wearier and a little more annoyed than she had intended. Still, Ginny was too wrapped up in her happy little Halloween-Dance world to pick up on it.
"You have to let me do your hair. And your makeup," she was saying, linking arms with her friend as they began to walk to the Gryffindor table. "What are you going as? Are you and Brandon going to match? It's all right if you aren't—it's kind of cheesy, anyway, and Harry and I aren't going to match. You'll meet me in my room, won't you? You can make me look all pretty, and—"
"Of course," Hermione cut in, stopping the rant before it could start. "I'll meet you in your dormitory and you can do whatever you like with my hair." She sighed, a bitter smile forming. "You can shave it off for all I care."
Ginny paused, looking amused. "Shave it off?" she asked dryly. "Oh, Mione, I know you don't like these big, noisy affairs, but I think tonight is going to be really fun."
Hermione looked down. "I'm sure you're right," she assured her friend.
Ginny smiled brightly. "I'm sure I am, too. After all, I practically planned the thing—and Ginny Weasley never throws a boring party."
They took their place at the table, right between Ron and Harry. As soon as they were seated, Ron began a rant of his own, talking Hermione's ear off about one petty problem or another.
"... and Seamus snatched Gwen Carver right from under my nose. I went up to him and I was like, 'Mate, I just told you I was gonna ask Gwen.' And he was like, 'Well, I guess I got to her first.' And I was like, 'Well, I am never speaking to you again!' And then he laughed. Laughed, I tell you!"
Hermione nodded, tried to listen, but her mind was in that faraway place. Where would Draco be tomorrow? Where would she be? Would everything turn out all right—or would it turn back to the way it had been before?
She looked over at the Slytherin table, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. He was there, having what looked like a tense discussion with his friend, Blaise Zabini. The ever-present Pansy Parkinson had her arm linked through his, and though they were each engaged in separate conversations, the Slytherin Princess kept a steady hold on her prince's arm.
Envy was a heavy burden, just one more Hermione had to add to the load.
She willed Draco to look at her, to meet her eyes, but he didn't.
"Hel-lo? Mione, are you even listening to me?" Ron waved a hand in front of her eyes, bringing her out of her thoughts.
"What? Oh. Sure."
"God, Hermione. I'm trying to talk to you and you're off in outer space!" Ron scowled, shaking his head. "Is the whole world against me? Really, I don't even know who my friends are anymore!" His ocean-blue eyes rolled dramatically.
"No one cares, Ronald," Ginny put in easily. She looked at him pointedly. "And don't kid yourself. Gwen would've said no, anyway."
Harry laughed at that, and normally Hermione would have, too. But she didn't. His green eyes looked at her funnily. "Hey, Mione, you okay?" he asked her, reaching around Ginny to gently touch her shoulder.
"Yeah, I'm fine. Just… thinking, is all." When she saw the concern on Harry's face, she made an attempt at a comforting smile.
Harry wasn't comforted, but he let it go.
"Hey, Hermione!" a voice called. Hermione turned to find Brandon Madison approaching. She wished she could smile, wished she could be happy, but the words she'd said to Draco rang clear in her mind.
Brandon and I are only friends. That's all we'll ever be.
"Hi," was all she could summon to say back.
He opened his mouth to speak, but at first nothing came out, as if he was grasping for something to say. "We're, uh… still meeting at the bottom of the stairwell, right?" he asked lamely.
"Yes."
He waited, but she didn't say more. "We… never really got a chance to talk about costumes," he continued. "You didn't want to match, did you?"
"No."
Again he waited, but again she didn't go on. "I was thinking I would go as a vampire," he informed her with a little shrug.
"How original." It was Ron who interjected, his narrowed eyes sizing up Hermione's date. Harry's emeralds were doing the same, letting the Ravenclaw Seeker know that they hadn't decided about him yet, and that he better watch his step when it came to their friend.
Brandon seemed unfazed by the scrutiny. "I stick to the classics," he replied with a friendly smile. He turned back to Hermione. "Hope that doesn't clash too much with whatever you're wearing," he went on.
"It won't."
Brandon frowned. "That's good." There was an awkward silence. "Okay, so…" He looked around at her friends. He was more uncomfortable than they'd ever seen him. "I'll see you then."
Hermione knew she should feel guilty, but for whatever reason, no regret came. Still, she pasted on a smile and said, "Yeah. See you then." He nodded, smiled, and headed out of the room.
The group watched him go before turning back to their friend. "God, Mione, he's a dream," Ginny said admiringly. "Such a gentleman. Not like these two." She waved a dismissive hand towards her own date and her brother. "Definitely one of the better ones this school has to offer."
One of the better ones, Hermione thought bitterly. She looked over at the Slytherin table. But not the best…
"You don't seem too excited," Harry observed, one eyebrow raised.
"That's one way to put it. Damn, Mione, you practically shut the man down," Ron put in. "It was very amusing," he added with a wide smile.
Harry's eyes narrowed. "I thought you liked him."
Hermione forced a laugh. "I do," she replied, trying to sound convincing.
"Really?" Harry asked dryly.
"Yes, really," she insisted. When the boys sent her those narrowed gazes, she sighed. "I just have other things on my mind."
Ron's brows furrowed. Those words were like a red flag, waving before a rainstorm. "What other things?" he asked, crossing his arms expectantly. "What's going on, Mione?"
Ginny put a defensive arm around her friend, shielding her from the brute force of Ronald Weasley and Harry Potter before they could start their emotional assault. "Are you deaf? She said she's fine! Can't you leave her alone for a single minute?" she asked. "God, you're always spoiling everyone's good mood with your incessant questions and your damn overprotectiveness."
"And you're always using Hermione as a reason to butt in and make big pish-posh speeches!" Ron said back, annoyed. "You have to make a dramatic scene out of everything!"
Ginny smiled with dry humor. "I have no idea where I got that from," she stated with a roll of her eyes.
Harry was chuckling again, and Ron found his frown easing into a reluctant smile.
But Hermione's mind was far away again. She never heard his clever comeback.
Out of the corner of his eye, Draco could see Madison standing at the Gryffindor table, talking to Hermione. Maybe the dolt hadn't heard him the last time they'd spoken. Maybe Madison hadn't understood what the wand pressed into his stomach had meant.
Or was the git really dumb enough to challenge him?
"We'll talk about this later," Draco informed his friend suddenly, extracting himself from Pansy's iron grip and standing from the table. "I have something I need to finish."
Blaise's dark eyes followed Draco's line of sight and dulled as they found Brandon Madison.
"That poof from Ravenclaw?" Vincent Crabbe asked, looking over his shoulder in confusion.
"What did he do?" Goyle asked curiously, watching as Brandon made his way out of the room.
Draco's jaw clenched. "He crossed a line," he answered vaguely, but truthfully, his voice deadly calm.
Crabbe whistled low. "Bon voyage, Madison," he laughed with a shake of his head.
Draco shared one last glance with Blaise. The darker boy looked less than pleased, but he held his tongue, letting his eyes do the talking for him. Draco understood what they were saying, but followed Madison out of the room anyway.
"Madison!" he called. Brandon glanced over his shoulder, but continued to walk. Draco's temper flared. He caught up to the other boy, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him up against the wall. "Maybe you didn't hear me," he said dangerously. "I was calling your name."
For someone who was being all but attacked, Brandon remained surprisingly cool. "Were you? I didn't notice."
Draco held him hard against the wall with a single hand against his throat. "Well I hope I'm making myself heard now." His voice and gaze were filled with venom. "I told you to stay away from Hermione Granger."
Brandon laughed despite the hand holding his throat. "I don't remember you saying anything of the sort," he said with a smile.
The sight of it fueled the flames inside of Draco. "My wand said it for me," he said, jabbing the tip of it into Brandon's gut. "Are you starting to remember?"
Another short laugh. "You're not the only one with a wand, Malfoy," the other man reminded him.
"I'm the only one who knows how to use it. And I will." The words were a promise, dark and intense. "Don't push me."
Brandon gritted his teeth when the wand jabbed harder into his stomach. Still, he forced himself to smile. "God, you really do fancy her, don't you?" he asked, strained, amused. "I know you're not one for fidelity and all that, Malfoy. But aren't you supposed to be with Pansy."
Draco's jaw clenched because it was true. He was supposed to be with Pansy.
Brandon's smile grew. "Which means Hermione Granger is fair game," he concluded.
Draco's hand itched to rearrange the damn whelp's face. "Stay. Away. From her." Each word was annunciated harshly. "Understand?"
The other boy didn't answer. After one tense moment, Draco let him go and slowly began to back away.
"Don't worry, Malfoy." Madison's voice came just as Draco turned. "I'm not like you. I'd never steal another bloke's girl," he called to his back. "Which is why I plan to leave Pansy alone."
The smart-alack words, the defiance they signified, caused Draco's hands to fist until his knuckles were white. His instincts told him to turn back around, to beat the bastard until he agreed to leave Hermione alone, but he forced himself to continue on his way.
Hermione was attacked by Ginny directly after her last class.
"Party. In my room. Now," she said in short, excited sentences. "Come on, Mione."
"Wait, wait, wait!" she interrupted, stopping Ginny from dragging her off to Gryffindor Tower. "My costume is in my room."
A little pout formed on the younger girl's lips. "But you said—"
"If you'll just let me go get it, I'll meet you there—at 'the party'," she finished, unraveling Ginny's arm from around her. "If that's okay," she added.
Ginny's pout quickly flashed to a smile. "Hurry up!" she commanded, and quickly pecked Hermione's cheek before bouncing off.
Hermione couldn't help the indulgent smile that crossed her face, but it faded as soon as Ginny disappeared from sight. With a sigh, she made her way to her own dormitory, deliberately moving slowly. Maybe if she went slowly enough, time would stand still and tomorrow would never come.
She walked through her common room to her bedroom, grabbing an old gym bag she'd had stuffed in the bottom drawer of her armoire. Inside was an old gown that her mother had worn in her younger days. Hermione hadn't looked at the thing since she'd stumbled upon it and impulsively packed it at the end of the summer.
Standing again, she headed towards the secret passage that ran from her room to the Gryffindor dormitories.
"Saw you with Madison at breakfast."
The familiar voice had her halting. She turned, looking into the heart-stopping grey eyes that she had fallen in love with. "He wanted to talk about the dance," she explained with a shrug. "Costumes and such."
Draco leaned back against the wall, his warm gaze roaming over her. "What are you going as?"
"It's a secret," she said with a soft smile. "You'll just have to be surprised."
Draco smiled a little at that. But it vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared. "You'll be with him all night, I suppose," he mused bitterly.
Hermione looked down. "And you'll be with Pansy," she reminded him.
"Yes. I'll be with Pansy." A short silence fell between them. "I'll see you there, then," he said after a while.
Hermione smiled. "Only if you can recognize me," she told him softly, wanting to cheer him, wanting to comfort herself.
But he didn't smile. "I'll recognize you," he assured her.
Hermione nodded and turned back to the door. Rotating the key and twisting the handle, she eased the door open. She looked over her shoulder, her eyes going to the far wall, but he was already gone.
Draco slipped out of the room, unable to watch her disappear first.
The night was closing in, and when it was over, the day would come, bringing with it a future he couldn't escape.
A future that didn't include her.
He stormed into his own room, opening a dresser drawer and taking the dreaded vial into his hand. The empty thing meant his death. How would he explain to the Dark Lord that he couldn't complete his Task? Who would pay for it once he did? Only him? Or Hermione, too?
Which way was safer? Should he get the blood? Could he trust that Voldemort only wanted it for sentimental reasons? Or was it part of something bigger?
Draco placed the tiny container onto the bedside table, staring at it with dread.
Why is it we don't have a choice?
The 'party,' as Ginny had put it, could be better descried as chaos. Girls flooded the Gryffindor bathrooms, hogging mirror space, all of them intent on perfecting their pretty hair and faces. Friends were all crowded together in the rooms, doing each other's nails and make-up. One colorfully dressed fifth year was sobbing on the floor; she'd just found out a friend of hers had purchased the same costume. Hermione passed a group of girls draped in skimpy pajamas, all of them bragging about the handsome dates they'd managed to snag.
"There you are! Jeez, I thought you'd never get here!" Ginny approached, immediately taking the bag from Hermione. "Alright, lets see what we have to work with." She unzipped the thing and looked inside. "It's a start, at least," she said. "Here, go put it on. I'll get my wand and make-up bag and meet you back here in five." She rushed off, and Hermione went in search of a free stall.
"You must have been so excited when Harry chose you over the other girls," she heard someone say just outside, presumably to Ginny. "He is such a dish," the girl raved.
"He's complicated," the redheaded girl corrected mildly. "And I was more relieved than anything when he asked me. If you could even call it asking me," she added. She shook her head. "Anyway, we're apparently going as friends."
"I wouldn't worry about that," Hermione heard Gwen Carver's voice say. "Once you get into your costume, that whole 'just friends' idea isn't going to stand a chance."
Ginny only shrugged a shoulder in response. And then she straightened as Hermione emerged from her stall.
"Well? What do you think?"
The redheaded and blonde girls came forward, their eyes thoughtfully scanning up and down, evaluating their friend's dress. It seemed like something out of a black and white film: thick lace appliqué blanketed antique-white satin, except for the long sleeves that stretched from shoulder to wrist, where underneath the delicate fabric, her skin was visible. The material was formfitting, but not tight, comfortably hugging her body as it draped down over her sides, her waist, her hips, and legs, sweeping the floor.
"It's actually rather pretty," Ginny decided after a moment. "In an old-fashioned sort of way." She looked back up to Hermione's face. "What are you going as?" she asked.
Hermione held up costume wings. "A fairy, I guess."
Gwen's hazel eyes admired the way the soft white dress accented Hermione's newly regained curves. "It definitely has potential," the girl said with an approving nod.
"Potential?"
"Don't get us wrong. It's lovely," Ginny said with a smile. "But with a few changes here and there, we could make it a knock-out."
"Bring it into this century," Gwen agreed. "Jazz it up a little. What do you say?"
Hermione's shoulders sagged.
"Please, please, pleeease," Ginny begged, putting on puppy-dog eyes and a playful pout.
Hermione sighed. "Fine," she relented. "But only a little," she stipulated.
The two girls clapped excitedly and then quickly went about retrieving the necessary tools for their transformation. Ginny came back a moment later and immediately began to pull and prod at Hermione. "Hold up your arms," she commanded, all business.
Hermione hesitated for a moment, but obeyed, holding her arms straight out on either side. The girls immediately began to measure and cut. "I'd like to state for the record that this is completely for your sake, not for mine," she told them.
"This is for Brandon's sake," Ginny corrected with a smile. "Once we get done with you, he'll be following you around like a puppy dog with a bone."
"Get done with me," Hermione repeated. "You'd think you were talking about torture."
The girls didn't disagree. They were too busy refining their work with whispered words and their wands. Hermione could feel her gown getting lighter, felt the material clinging closer to her curves.
Finally, the two stepped away from her to assess their alterations. After a few moments of furrowed consideration, their faces broke into giddy smiles. "It's perfect," Ginny gushed, clapping her hands together. "Brandon is going to go mad. He's going to be fending rabid boys off of you right and left!"
Hermione went to the full-length mirror, looked at her reflection, and frowned. They'd transformed the lace over her arms into cap sleeves. The hem that had ended at the floor now neatly ended somewhere between mid-thigh and her knee. The neckline that had cut straight across now sat much closer to the small swell of breasts, hugging them, revealing décolletage for her diamond necklace to sit above.
"The hem is a little high," she observed uncomfortably.
"Hardly," Ginny scoffed.
"And the neckline is a little low," she went on. She turned back to her friends. "I feel like I'm in lingerie."
"You look beautiful," Gwen assured her.
Hermione turned back to the mirror, analyzing the woman she saw there. "I don't know," she told them. "I'm not comfortable. It's not... me."
Ginny joined her friend in front of the mirror. "Halloween is the one day of the year you're allowed to be somebody else," she reminded her. "Tonight, you're not Hermione Granger. You're a sensual, seductive fairy princess who's going to cast her spell on every man in that room." She turned Hermione by the shoulders. "Channeling that Amazon. Remember?" she asked expectantly.
Hermione looked reluctant, but nodded.
Ginny smiled excitedly. "Okay, sit, sit, sit!" She practically pushed Hermione into a chair and immediately began her next assault. Taking the band out her hair, she combed through the thick locks with her fingers. "I'm thinking we should go straight," she said, studying the curls.
"Definitely," Gwen put in. "It will add length. What do you think?" she asked, consulting with a newcomer who had stopped to stare.
"It will look fabulous with that dress," the girl confirmed enthusiastically. She circled around, revealing herself to be another sixth-year, Claudette Hearst. Her dark eyes were bright as they considered Hermione. "And it will give you a chance to show off that beautiful necklace," she added with a smile. She leaned in closer, trying to get a better look at the unusual piece. "It's very interesting," she complimented. "Is that a snake around the diamond?"
Hermione's hand immediately went to the jewel at her chest, holding it protectively. "Yes."
"I never got a chance to ask you about that. What's it about?" Gwen inquired, coming around to look as well. "Snakes are supposed to be a Slytherin thing."
Hermione didn't answer.
"She never talks about it," Ginny explained to the girls, her voice playing up the mystery. "It came one day in the mail; imagine—a diamond falling right down with the boring everyday letters. There was a message attached, but it wasn't signed." Ginny annunciated the last two words for effect.
It worked; both the girls' eyes widened with interest. "How romantic," Gwen exclaimed. "A secret admirer!"
"Or a mystery man," Claudette filled in with knowing eyes. "Have a boyfriend back home you never told us about, Hermione?" she asked with a smile.
"Of course not," Hermione answered dully.
"Then who is it from?" Claudette urged interestedly.
Hermione took a deep breath, trying to quell the sadness she felt inside. "It came without a signature," she reminded them tiredly.
Gwen sighed dreamily. "So it is a secret admirer," she sighed. "How grand!"
Ginny removed her hands from Hermione's hair, looking thoughtful. "You should do it, Gwen," she decided after a moment. "You do the Straightening Spell best. I always overdo it. Last time, I made it so straight the strands almost split in half."
Gwen dutifully switched places with Ginny without a word. Hermione held in a sigh as the new set of fingers began to sift through her hair. "I wonder who the necklace is from, then," she went on conversationally. "One of your friends maybe?"
Hermione looked down, fingering the chain around her neck.
"Ron doesn't have the money. The thing obviously cost a fortune," Ginny put in with a shrug. "And he's really not that imaginative, anyway."
"And I doubt Harry would ever choose a snake," Claudette put in from off to the side. "Would he?"
"In another universe. Or maybe as a joke." She smiled. "You really never can tell with him. He's complicated." And then her eyes narrowed. "But Brandon Madison, on the other hand, is not." She snapped her fingers. "And he's a very plausible suspect."
Hermione looked at her friend, her brown eyes weary. "It's not from him," she assured the group.
"How do you know?" Ginny asked. "It could be. It makes the most sense."
"He has the money," Claudette put in. "His family is like wizarding royalty—running around with the Malfoy sort."
"But we won't hold that against him," Gwen added with a smile.
"And he has the imagination," Ginny continued, her excitement growing. "We all witnessed that at the quidditch match. You remember, don't you?" she asked the other girls. "He steered his broom to the stands and called Hermione 'milady' and said he'd win the match for her, like some knight from the middle ages!"
"How utterly romantic!"
"But he didn't win," Hermione whispered, the faintest of smiles appearing on her lips.
Ginny rolled her eyes. "That doesn't matter. It's the thought that counts. What matters is that he fancies you enough to try. And he has all the necessary means to show you he cares with big romantic gestures."
"Like a surprise serenade in the middle of a quidditch match," Gwen said from behind her.
"Or an expensive diamond necklace," Claudette finished with a smile.
Hermione looked down, and then back up, half of her feeling annoyed, the other half feeling numb. "It was before the match, and there was no serenade," she told them firmly. "And he didn't buy me this necklace."
"I wonder why he chose a snake," Gwen mused thoughtfully, ignoring the denial. Hermione could feel the light weight of the girl's wand on her head, and sat still as she whispered a few words in Latin. She felt more than saw her hair begin straighten out, her lush curls slowly falling into soft, perfect lines. "Out of all things, a snake," she continued, watching her spell work it's magic on Hermione's hair.
"Men have the strangest ideas," Ginny said with a shrug, and the two other girls nodded as if it explained everything.
Five minutes later, Hermione's ringlets had completely straightened out until her tresses fell long and lustrous down her back. "It's perfect, Mione," Ginny told her with a satisfied smile. "You look like a goddess, and I haven't even done your makeup."
"I think I'll forgo the makeup," Hermione quickly said, pasting on a smile. She couldn't sit here for another minute and listen to them gab on and on about things they knew nothing about. She didn't want to think about Brandon, or even about Draco. She didn't want to think.
"But, Mione…"
"You should get yourself ready," Hermione told her softly. "You have to knock Harry off his feet tonight."
Ginny smiled warmly at that. "I'm pretty sure he's seen a mouse before," she said.
"Trust me, tonight is going to be a first," Gwen promised, wiggling her eyebrows.
Giggling, the three other girls found something fresh to chatter about, and Hermione excused herself, making a quick escape. She moved through the crowded halls in what seemed to be a hopeless search for an empty room.
Finally, she found one. It was one of her old rooms, she realized, from her first or second year at Hogwarts. Hermione remembered those years. Her life had been so different then, like someone else's altogether. Only a few things had carried through to today.
Like the uncertainty. The safest she had ever felt had never quite been safe.
She paced to the middle bed, her old bed, sitting down on it. How many nights had she slept here, wondering if people liked her, or if they thought she was smart, or pretty, or funny, or worthy. Back then, most had turned up their noses at her—Draco Malfoy certainly had. But for some reason, she missed those days—back in the beginning, when there had still been a chance for something new, something better. When tomorrow had been uncertain, but had somehow still looked bright.
When there had been hope.
Hermione looked around the room and her eyes fell on a full-length mirror against the far wall. She had half-expected to see the twelve-year-old bookworm that had once stared back, or the scarred, skin-and-bones girl that that bookworm had become. But there was someone new in the mirror, someone she hardly recognized as herself.
She stood, coming closer to study herself in the glass. Her hair was straight and soft, falling in long lines over her shoulders and down her back. The white gown hugged subtle curves she'd never seen before, making her look feminine. If not for the haunted brown eyes that met hers in the mirror, she would have thought it was a different girl altogether.
Hermione slid her arms through the elastic bands of the costume wings, brining them to her back. Fingering the stone at her throat, she turned away from the mirror.
She was ready. Whatever came, tonight, or tomorrow, or the next day, she told herself she was ready.
And maybe if she kept thinking it, kept trying to convince herself, she would find a way to make it true.
"Where are they? We've been waiting here for hours!"
Brandon looked at the Gryffindor boy with an amused grin, his pointy vampire teeth sticking out as he did. "We've only actually been waiting for fifteen minutes," he informed him.
Ron's blue eyes were annoyed as they turned on Brandon. So far, he wasn't liking this new addition to their group. "The point is they should already be here," he said, and turned to Harry with speaking eyes.
The green-gazed boy understood the message and shrugged helplessly. "You know girls. They always take forever to get ready."
"We should just go in without them," Ron declared, crossing his arms. "We should just go."
Brandon's brows furrowed. "And leave them by themselves?" he asked, troubled, unsure if Ron was joking or not.
He wasn't. "It's not like they haven't been living here for the past seven years," he reasoned crossly. "They know the way. They don't need our help."
"We told them we'd meet them at the bottom of the stairwell."
Ron looked at Brandon with temper in his eyes. "And they told us they'd be here on time," he reminded the newcomer. "And they're not. So they get what they deserve." He rolled his eyes and brought the back of his wrist to his forehead, rubbing an itch there.
"You're smudging your scar, mate," Harry informed him, pointing.
Ron groaned. The drawn-on scar, which had been shaped into a lightning bolt, was now a fat black blur against his skin. "Bollocks. Can you still tell what it is?" he asked hopefully.
"No," Brandon told him.
"But it's not a big deal," Harry quickly filled in, not wanting to deal with the Weasley dramatics. "I think the black hair and the glasses kind of give you away."
"Kind of," Brandon agreed unconvincingly.
Ron sent the Ravenclaw an unhappy stare. But then something caught his eye, bringing them wide, and then narrowing them angrily.
"What in hell do you think you're wearing?"
The other two boys turned to look up, their eyes widening as well. Little Ginny Weasley looked all grown up in a dark minidress that swished around her thighs as she made her way down the steps. Her breasts, which had never been especially noticeable, were hugged by tight taupe-colored material, accenting them nicely. Her bright red hair was curled into gentle waves that bounced just above her shoulders, and sitting atop her head was a set of grey mouse ears. In one of her hands was a thick pink cord that linked to her tailbone.
She twirled that tail sexily, ignoring her brother's reddening face and concentrating on the way Harry was staring at her, entranced. "You can stop drooling now," she stated dryly when she reached him, though she wouldn't have minded if he didn't.
"Yes," Ron interjected angrily, pushing his friend. "Put your tongue back in your mouth."
Harry shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said, but he couldn't avert his eyes from her generous curves. "You look... different..."
"Good different, I hope," she said with a smile.
He nodded. And then his eyes widened. "That's not to say I think you look bad the rest of the time. I think you look fine—pretty, I mean. But your hair, and your clothes—not that your normal clothes are wrong or anything, it's just—"
"Stop talking now, Harry," Ginny advised, her eyes sparkling with satisfaction.
"Yeah, stop talking, Harry," Ron agreed loudly, punching his friend's arm. "And stop looking at her like you're going to eat her alive." He turned to Ginny, his face and ears bright red. "And you—go back upstairs this instant and put on something else!" he ordered, pointing his finger towards the top of the staircase.
Ginny's eyes narrowed. "I don't have anything else," she told him. "Surprisingly enough, I'm not really stocked up on mouse couture."
Ron crossed his arms, the sarcastic remark only infuriating him more. "Then don't be a mouse. Be something else. Throw on a sheet and call yourself a ghost for all I care. Just put on some damn clothes!"
Ginny shook her head, crossing her arms. "If you don't like my outfit, then you're just going to love Hermione's," she stated mildly.
As if on cue, Hermione appeared at the top staircase. Each of the three boys' jaws dropped as she approached.
Hermione took in the group waiting at the bottom of the steps. She recognized the emerald-eyed boy right away; he was dressed in his plain Gryffindor quidditch robes in a half-assed attempt to look like a professional player. Next to him was Ron, dressed in a school uniform. His hair was magically dyed black, and he wore round-rimmed glasses, identical to the ones that Harry wore. A dark smudge was on his forehead—the lightning scar, she assumed. Leave it to Ron to mess it up before the night had even begun.
The third boy was harder for Hermione to identify, but she knew who he had to be. It was Brandon, her date, dark and elegant, with artificially pale skin and vampire fangs. Like the two boys, his eyes were wide as he stared at her, but she could see desire in his, and the need to possess. That look made her want to turn around and run back to the security of her own dormitory—into the arms of the person she was really meant to be with.
An ache spread through her heart. But if it was really meant to be, then why wasn't it happening? Why wasn't Draco here with her, instead of with Pansy? Why was everything so askew?
Their mouths were still open when she finally reached them. She looked at them with an awkward smile. "Why… are you all looking at me like that?"
Ron was the first to shake himself out of the stupor, letting the protective anger return. "Why, indeed?" he asked moodily, his eyes narrowing. "Since when is dressing in your knickers considered an acceptable costume for Halloween?"
"It isn't too revealing, is it?" Hermione asked, Brandon's not-so-veiled stare making her wonder if she should cover herself.
"It doesn't leave much to the imagination," Harry said, though he didn't so much as glance away from Ginny.
"We look like nuns compared to the other girls," the redheaded girl argued.
"I sincerely doubt that," Ron threw back, "because being naked is strictly against the rules here at Hogwarts."
Hermione looked down at herself, insecure. "It isn't too revealing… right?" she asked again.
"I think you look amazing," Brandon told her.
"Of course you do," Ron spat, disapprovingly looking the boy up and down. "It is too revealing, isn't it, Harry?" He looked over at his friend for support. Harry was barely listening, his complete focus on his best friend's little sister. "Harry!" Ron said again.
With effort, Harry dragged his gaze away from Ginny. "Maybe you should put something over it," he supplied, but it was only halfhearted. He knew if Hermione covered up, his date would have to, too.
"Oh, you two are insufferable!" Ginny took Hermione's hand and smiled threateningly at the boys. "We are going to the dance now. If you'd like to join us, you're more than welcome to do so." And with that, she walked off, pulling a self-conscious Hermione along with her.
The boys watched them go, Harry's eyes on Ginny, Brandon's on Hermione, and Ron's rolling in frustration.
"We should probably follow them," Brandon said, scratching his neck, his head tilting as he watched Hermione's hips sway from side to side.
"Probably," Harry agreed, his eyes following the accented movement of Ginny's hips.
Ron looked at the other two boys and made a sound of disgust. "Oh, come on!" he groaned, and started off after the girls, slapping Harry and Brandon upside the head as he passed between them.
They followed the girls into the Great Hall. Music seemed to be coming from every corner of the darkened room, emitting the familiar voices of the popular boy-girl duo, Pandora's Box, who had managed to be secured as this year's entertainment. Pumpkins floated high in the air above them, and decorations of all sorts clung to the walls. Harry and Brandon immediately pulled their dates onto the dance floor, abandoning Ron to take pictures from the refreshment table.
Hermione's eyes scanned the crowd, looking for Draco. So many people were wearing masks that she couldn't be sure who was who. Where was he? Would she see him before tomorrow? Would she get to say goodbye?
A few songs finished before a slower beat began to fill the room. Brandon pulled Hermione into his arms, holding her close. She could smell him; he was wearing some kind of fancy cologne that was a little too strong. Draco's scent was plain in comparison, but she would have chosen it any day.
Would she ever have a chance to breathe in that scent again?
Brandon pulled her even closer, so that her body was pressed up completely against his. She searched the crowd again, wanting more than anything to be out of Brandon's embrace and lost in Draco's.
Hermione felt her head begin to ache. But the cause wasn't the smell of Brandon's cologne or the pounding of the bass. It was the insecurity. It was the dread.
A pair of dark silver eyes looked out from behind their wolf mask and locked on the beautiful girl dancing with Brandon Madison. Pansy was saying something, but Draco didn't hear her. His gaze was riveted on Hermione, on her body, her face.
Beautiful…
Every fiber inside of him longed to go to her, to hold her close. She was stunning, a vision in white—a diamond in the rough, bright despite the darkness. Warm desire spread throughout his body, and he shifted from one foot to the other to even himself out.
He would kill Madison. Kill him for touching her when Draco couldn't, for holding her close when she looked as beautiful—and as exposed—as she did tonight. Brandon's arms were wound all the way around her, forcing her body against him. His palms were spread wide, his fingers splaying, taking in as much as they could. Draco could feel his own hands clench, itching to make contact with the other man's face.
He crossed a line, was how he'd explained it to his friends. And he was still crossing it. Without remorse, without reserve. As if Hermione belonged to him, and not to Draco.
"Is that the mudblood?" Pansy asked, looking Hermione up and down in disbelief. "Well, well, well. I guess now we know exactly how she managed to ensnare Brandon," she said pointedly.
"What is that supposed to mean?" Draco asked her, tense.
Pansy smiled, satisfied that she had finally said something to capture his attention. "She's all over him," she explained with a smooth, casual air. "And that pathetic attempt at cleaning up…" she added, her eyes full of censure. "It can only mean one thing."
"Get on with it," Draco said between his teeth.
"Well, I think it's rather obvious," she told him. "They're sleeping together."
Draco looked from her sultry smile to the couple out on the dance floor, his brows furrowed.
"As much as I dislike the mudblood, I always had a measure of respect for the fact that she never whored around like the other girls in this school. But now it appears she's become as big a slut as the rest of them," he heard Pansy say with a mixture of amusement and disgust. "I mean, look at that dress. No wonder Brandon is so enraptured."
Draco's jaw clenched. He knew it wasn't true; Hermione had been with him every night, sleeping innocently in his arms. Still, the words had the fury building inside of him. They reminded him of the impermanence of what he and Hermione had, and of the fact that, by this time tomorrow, it would all be over.
"I didn't think Hermione Granger could sink any lower," Pansy went on mildly. "Or Brandon, for that matter. But it appears there's only a few of us left who know how to stick to our morals."
Draco's gaze turned sharply back to Pansy. His jaw clenched, his hands fisted, but somehow he held himself back from doing anything rash.
"What?" Pansy asked innocently at the dangerous look on Draco's face. "I know you're not offended for either of their sakes."
"You never offend me, Pansy," he bit off. "You just aggravate me." Without another word, he walked away.
Pansy watched him go with a frown. She'd become more than used to his curt, apathetic way of treating her. His harsh words and looks may have broken skin, but she'd never let them hurt her enough to make her bleed. Draco was a selfish man by nature, and he could hardly be blamed for it—that attribute had been passed down the pristine Malfoy bloodline, starting centuries and centuries before.
She'd told herself he was straightening out, getting in line. She'd analyzed his behavior and concluded that he was changing, calming, learning, becoming the man—the husband—she needed him to be. But Blaise Zabini's words had lingered, edging their way into her subconscious, creating doubt.
I wouldn't be too quick to say that it's for the better. I wouldn't be too quick to say that it's for you.
There was no question that he was different. The reasons, however, remained unclear. And as much as she'd tried to tell herself they didn't matter, that the end result was all that counted, she found herself wondering, questioning why. He'd been acting strange for a while now. Ever since...
Pansy suddenly turned her eyes back to the dance floor, where the mudblood was still wrapped up in Brandon Madison's embrace. Her eyes slit. It suddenly occurred to her that Draco had seemed almost bothered by her banter, as if, secretly, he'd been defensive of the girl, as if he'd been protective of her—as if he actually cared about her or something.
Pansy crossed her arms, studying the mudblood with a sneer. A Malfoy would never fall for one of her kind. Draco would never fall for her.
His attention to Granger was for the Task, for the blood—at least, that's what she'd believed. But could it be that somehow Draco had developed... sympathy for the bitch? Affection for the bitch? Pansy's head was shaking, trying to erase the strange idea. It was disgusting. It was impossible!
But it made sense.
And suddenly things were falling into place. How he'd saved her life, when he should have let her die. All those night he'd left the Dungeon early, all the parties he'd skipped in favor of being in his own dormitory. Those days in the Great Hall—he had been looking for her, hadn't he? It was all coming together now. The way he'd been so guarded about the Task, so defensive. The sudden random hatred he had for the ever-friendly Brandon. It wasn't random, was it?
Draco had feelings for Hermione Granger.
Pansy was seething. She could feel the fury reverberating around her. It was strong enough to crack the windows and bring down the walls.
It had been sad but amusing to think that Brandon Madison, a wizard of good name and blue blood, had fallen to one such as Hermione Granger. But Draco—Draco Malfoy—never! He didn't care about his girls, just used them and discarded them. He didn't grow attached or fall in love—not with any woman, but especially not with the likes of the mudblood. He was the Slytherin Prince—the Heir, for Christ's sake!
And he was hers. Or at least, she had thought he was. But it looked like, as usual, he was doing whatever he wanted, unapologetically straying from her and from the plan.
But that was Draco Malfoy for you. There wasn't a rule in the world he wouldn't break—and there wasn't a woman in the world he wouldn't fuck. It wasn't as if Granger was the first to trespass on Pansy's territory. A new girl was throwing herself at him every day, and he was never one to even pretend to resist. Most of his whores did the honorable thing and stayed away after he was done with them, but, of course, a man like Draco always had a few hangers-on, leaving the ever-patient Pansy no other choice but to get involved.
So she'd had to get rid of the ones who just wouldn't give up. Greta Berg certainly hadn't been the first to feel Pansy's wrath. Every naïve hopeful or manipulative schemer that had tried to hang on past their expiration date had been swiftly taken off the shelf. Some had fought it, but it had never taken her long to dispose of the trash. And she could do it again, would do it—especially now that her future husband's intentions were less than clear where this particular piece of litter was concerned.
If Hermione Granger thought she'd seen Pansy's dark side, she was in for a violent awakening.
Hours went by before Pandora's Box stepped away from their instruments, clearing the spotlight for Professor Dumbledore, who stood on the temporary elevated section of floor.
"I am sorry to say that our evening is drawing to a close," he said, his voice raised for everyone to hear. Groans sounded. "I think we should thank Pandora's Box, who took time out of their busy schedules to play for our humble gathering." The entire hall erupted into shouts and whoops, and the famous man and woman waved lightly with smiles. "Also, let's thank the student officials who put this marvelous event together. A round of applause, please, for our Head Boy, Head Girl, and our Prefects. They did a wonderful job planning all this." Again, the school clapped and hollered in support. "To show our appreciation, I think we should let them lead us in the final dance. If you would clear the floor..." He looked out into the crowd, and though it was dark, his twinkling eyes seemed to find the students easily. "Head Boy and Head Girl, pair up together, if you please. Prefects, you do the same."
Pandora's Box began to play again, the first melodic bars revealing the haunting intro to one of their ballads.
Hermione felt the people around her move away, until the whole world was a circle around her, watching her, waiting. No costumed man stepped out to claim the dance, and she had the sudden fear that Draco wouldn't come forward—or worse, that he couldn't, that he had already gone, already headed towards tomorrow without looking back, without saying goodbye.
The Prefects were partnered up and slowly swaying to the music at the center of the floor, making Hermione self-conscious as she stood alone. She made a slow, 360 degree turn, searching from face to face for the Head Boy—gave up when he was nowhere to be found. With a deep sigh, she began to walk from the floor.
"I told you I'd recognize you," a dark voice said from behind her.
She stopped. Slowly, she turned back. Draco's commanding form was clad in expensive black dress robes. A wolf mask covered half of his face, but she could see his silver eyes, the warmth there. The intensity there.
"I wasn't sure you would come," she told him quietly.
Draco's only answer was his haunted gaze. He looked around the room, where other couples had begun to move together with the beat. And then he looked back to her. He stepped closer, holding out a hand. "Dance with me," he commanded.
Hermione had to hold herself back from flowing easily into his arms. Slowly, dutifully, she stepped to him. Respectability—and self-preservation—had them keeping a safe distance apart, her hand on his shoulder, his careful on her back, the others joined in what both hoped looked like a casual grasp. They danced to the slow melody, spines straight, bodies tense, tortured—but not for the reason that everyone thought. The students and teachers would no doubt assume that it was the old enmity that kept them upright, kept them from pulling each other close, the old hatred that kept them from smiling and enjoying the dance. Really, it was the new love, the one that tempted and taunted them, the one they longed to display to each other and all the world, but couldn't.
Pandora's Box was singing about regret, about things left unsaid, about having to go separate ways, about having to say goodbye. The slow, smooth melody, the haunting, familiar words—they were surrounding the room as if meant for them alone, about them alone. But neither heard the poignant lyrics. They were too lost in each other, too focused on trying to disguise it. It didn't matter though. The words were there inside of both of them, there in the way their gazes clashed, held, couldn't look away. They were there in the way she tightened her fingers around his longingly, pleadingly, there in the way his jaw tensed hauntedly in response.
How they longed to wrap their arms fully around waists, longed to close their eyes and sway, chins resting on shoulders, cheeks resting against chests. But Draco knew if Hermione came any nearer, the world would start to wonder, start to suspect. And he knew if he pulled her any closer he would never be able to let her go.
Unable to fight off every temptation, Draco let his gaze roam from its fixed unfocused place over her shoulder to her face, her neck, her body, and then back up again. Unable to stop himself, he pulled her half an inch closer. "You look..." He swallowed. "You're breathtaking."
Hermione longed for him to force her closer, felt sadness well up inside of her because she knew why he didn't. She moved to look into his eyes. "I'm a fairy," she explained, trying to smile.
He shook his head, the movement quick, jerky. "An angel," he corrected meaningfully. His hands tightened around her, holding with restrained passion, the kind you couldn't see, but could feel burn. "You're an angel."