The meal was excruciating. Kara played her role as his date far more enthusiastically than he'd anticipated. It was as though she weren't playing at all. And Draco ... he was stunned by her boldness, but he couldn't let it show. After all, he was supposed to have dated this woman. He flirted with her, matched her, word for word, look for look, touch for touch. This was one of Draco's skills, after all. Little used, yes; despised, true; but a finely-honed skill nonetheless.
Draco was relieved when the conclusion of dinner was announced. He'd sworn never to use these skills to wound again, and when he saw the look on Hermione's face halfway through dinner, he'd felt sick at his stomach. And he was pretty sure he'd lost all of Harry's respect.
He was anxious to get away from Kara. As dinner progressed, he became further convinced that she was just like many of the guests his father had entertained-spoiled, selfish, arrogant, and likely interested in one...or two... things: his money and/or the rumors about his proficiency in the bedroom. Not exactly for the long walks on the beach and slow-dancing kind of thing.
It grated on his nerves so much so that when he finally was able to leave the table, he stood noisily, scraping his chair across the floor and storming away, wondering how he'd ever found her attractive in the first place. He felt low-lower than low. Like he could never scrub himself clean. And he certainly never wanted to set eyes on her again.
When the guests were led to the ballroom, Draco stayed against the walls, near the bar. Halfway through the second dance, someone interrupted his third Firewhiskey.
"Oi! Draco!" It was Ron. Ron, who had obviously not spoken to Harry, Ginny, or Hermione, evidenced by the fact that he was smiling as he approached. "Have you danced yet?"
"Uh, no."
"Why not?" Ron ordered himself a butterbeer and stood beside Draco, sipping and watching the crowd.
"As a general rule, I don't dance," he replied bitterly, watching Fred and Hermione moving smoothly across the dance floor. Fred Weasley. Draco had thought about him all through dinner. He was smart, highly successful, and rich-all of which Draco was too. However, Fred was also a Weasley, and therefore generally good-natured, friendly, and he smiled. A lot. Things that could notbe said about Draco. And, knowing he owned a joke shop meant that he could probably make her laugh. Draco ground his teeth at the thought. He was supposed to be the one who made her laugh. Jealousy bubbled unchecked inside him.
"Nonsense, Malfoy. You danced fourth year."
"Once. Because Pansy threatened to stab me with her stiletto."
"Still. You should. It would make Pansy happy; she thinks you're over her, sulking in the corner."
"I am," he muttered under his breath.
"What?" Ron asked.
"Have you talked to Harry lately?" Draco asked, skeptical.
"Yeah. Said you were a giant prat at dinner. Not that it's surprising to see those old, half-forgotten traits resurface."
He glared at Ron. "Sod off."
Ron laughed. "Come on, Draco. We don't like you because you're a giant cuddly teddy bear. Now that I think about it ... don't ask me to try and say why we like you, all right?"
"I'm always good for a sarcastic quip or to pick up the tab when we go out."
"That must be the reason," said Ron. "So ... what exactly happened at dinner?
"I ... was an idiot."
"Must've done something unusual; Harry never gets annoyed when you're an idiot ..." Ron's eyes went wide. "Wait! Did you sit at Hermione's table?"
"Yes," Draco answered warily. It would appear that Harry had not told Ron the specifics of the dinner atmosphere, but he didn't want Ron poking around at the topic of Hermione.
"Was it Fred? Did he provoke you? He's crazy jealous of you, you know. Hates it when Hermione mentions you."
"She talks about me?" he asked, stunned. Though, really, it was almost worse to hear that she talked about him when she wouldn't talk to him.
"Yeah, sometimes. Although ... Harry would've said if Fred had been involved, what with the history between you and Hermione's."
"We don't have history," Draco ground out.
Ron rolled his eyes. "That's right. How could I forget? You two just spent four or five months constantly in each other's presence. Did you get jealous at seeing Hermione with Fred? That must have been it!" Ron looked as though he had figured out the cure for world hunger. "You were jealous, and said something to or about Fred that Harry didn't like!"
"I barely said two words to your brother. And I was not jealous." He put all the venom, all the lethal bite he could into his response and gave Ron a fierce glare. Surely that would at least stop the questions about Hermione.
It worked; Ron backed a few feet from Draco and winced as though Draco had taken a swing at him. "Right. Course you weren't." Ron didn't buy Draco's lie, but that didn't matter. "Then ... what?"
Draco scowled. "Let's just say ... I did something I swore I'd never do again."
Ron patted him on the back. "Hey, mate. We all mess up. Just do better next time."
"I don't want there to b be /b a next time." He didn't want to spend his evenings in pointless flirtation, he didn't want a string of one-night stands, or meaningless shags ... He had been through those motions too much already. He wanted ... I Bugger. /I He needed another drink.
Ron was spared the duty of finding something useful and meaningful to say to Draco's unusual admission of fault by Pansy, who pulled him onto the dance floor. She also tried half-heartedly to convince Draco to dance.
Naturally, he declined, and resumed drinking and glaring at Fred Weasley.
Three songs later, Kara approached him. It must have been all the spirits he had imbibed that prevented him from noticing her until it was too late. "Draco, dance with me," she said, as though it was more of a command than a question.
He looked at her incredulously. Hadn't she noticed his growing repulsion during dinner, and how he'd practically run away from her? Obviously not.
"Come on," she laughed. "I'm not that bad once you get to know me." Her eyes twinkled darkly, and Draco decided she probably was that bad.
"No, thanks."
"Draco Malfoy." The ethereal Luna Lovegood had appeared next to Kara.
He'd never in his life been relieved to see Luna, until now. "Yes?"
"I have noticed that you have not yet been on the dance floor," she said airily.
"Excellent observation, Luna. You're right." Draco looked at her intently, as though they were having the most interesting conversation.
"I'm trying to convince him to change that," said Kara, glancing uncertainly at Luna. Draco enjoyed the thought that perhaps Kara was beginning to doubt her hold on him; Luna could be very pretty when she tried, as she had tonight.
Luna turned to look at her and cocked her head. "Are you still here?"
Draco nearly spat out the drink he'd just taken. It had not taken him long to discover that Luna was more perceptive than he had ever imagined. If Kara had not noticed his growing reticence during dinner, Luna had, and she seemed to have decided that she was on Draco's side.
Kara looked affronted. "Yes, actually, I was here first."
"I see. I want the unflappable Draco Malfoy to dance with me." She turned back to him, dismissing Kara with her body language. "So. Which will it be?"
He was slightly caught off guard. Luna or Kara? Well, it was an obvious choice, but still-Luna? That was unexpected but he appreciated her support nonetheless. Dancing with her was better than having a conversation with Kara or getting progressively more drunk while glaring at redheads.
"Luna. One dance."
Kara glared at them, licked her lips at Draco, and said, "When you get bored, come find me."
Luna seemed to float next to him as he led her to the dance floor and took her in his arms. He almost instantly regretted going against his gut, even if it got him away from Kara. The relief was only fleeting; he didn't dance. He felt surrounded and pressed upon; people were bumping into him, and touchinghim. She was a decent dance partner, but she barely seemed to pay him any attention, which was a little annoying. She seemed to be looking for something or someone. Not that he wanted to make small talk, but still. It was strange. But then, it was Luna Strange was her thing.
The song seemed to go for hours and Draco was getting anxious. He wanted to get off the floor, and was about to excuse himself from Luna when two things happened simultaneously.
First, he heard someone say "Ow!" very loudly and very nearby. Second, someone bumped into him, hard. He turned to scold the person, but his words caught in his throat when he saw that the person who had bumped into him was Hermione. And judging by the look on her face, she was also the person who'd said 'ow'.
Draco glanced around now that he and Luna had stopped dancing to notice that Neville had been both Hermione's dance partner and the cause of her distress.
Hermione's face was twisted in pain and she didn't even look at the person she'd run into-namely, him.
"I-I'm sorry, Hermione," stuttered Neville. "Do you need help?"
Draco looked around-no one, especially not Fred,seemed to have noticed what happened, but then Luna had steered them to one side of the large room.
"No," she said quickly, putting her hand up to ward him off. "I'm fine." She tried to walk, and grimaced when she put weight on her right foot. She took another tentative step toward the edge of the floor and her knees buckled, causing her to stumble. Draco caught her, and swept her into his arms in one fluid motion.
"Uhm, Draco? Should I get help?" Neville asked, looking completely horrified at what he'd done.
"No need," Draco said shortly.
"Should we come?" he offered.
"I'll take care of her," he replied without looking at Hermione; though he could feel her burning, inquisitive gaze on him as he quickly carried her into an empty side room.
She didn't say a word, but she also didn't protest his ministrations. She only put her arms around his neck to keep from being jostled.
Draco's heart was pounding, and he was pretty sure she could feel it. She had never been this close, and oh Merlin, she smelled like perfection. Her hair was bouncing on his shoulder and with every fourth step it brushed his face. It was the softest thing he'd ever felt. And where the skin of her arms touched the skin of his neck, he felt fire.
Gently he set her in a chair and he heard a sharp intake of air. He looked at Hermione finally, and she was biting her lip, looking down at her foot. She looked up at him and for a moment said nothing, her eyes a raging squall of mixed emotions. Then her features darkened, and she looked away.
"Are you okay?" he asked with concern, though it was a stupid question.
"No, I'm not bloody okay," she sniffed. "Remember the part where you carried me in here?"
Oh, she was not a happy witch.
"What hurts?"
She gaped at him, incredulous. "My arm. What do you think?" She leaned down to look at her foot and started to take her shoe off, but one touch caused her to gasp in pain.
"Bad question. How does it hurt?"
"Like someone hit my foot with a bat as hard as he could."
Draco bent down in front of her and examined the shoe; it was black, pointy, and tall. It was ridiculous how women insisted on wearing things that could serve as a torture device in a pinch. He'd once seen his aunt use it to good effect. He gingerly touched the tip and Hermione slapped his hand.
"Ow," she said, scowling at him. "Don't."
"The shoe needs to come off so I can look at it."
She tried again, but the pain was too much, and she was unsuccessful at pulling the shoe from her foot. Tears welled up in the corners of her eyes, and Draco knew she must be in tremendous pain; he'd never seen her cry except in the most severe situations or during the occasional romantic film. But she was so strong, too. She was fighting the tears, fighting crying. Maybe because he was there.
"Let me," he said. He gripped the heel end of the shoe in one hand, then positioned his other hand under the sole. "This will hurt, but only for a second."
She nodded, and gripped the arms of the chair so hard her knuckles turned white.
Draco met her gaze and gave a curt nod, then in a swift motion pulled the shoe off.
Hermione yelped in pain, grabbing his shoulder and squeezing so hard that it hurt. But he knew his pain was nothing compared to hers, so he did not complain. Once the wave passed, they both looked at her foot. A huge bruise had already formed around her toes, and the big toe appeared to be broken. A few other toes were bleeding.
Draco let out a whistle. "Merlin, what did he do?"
"Neville isn't the most coordinated ... he landed hard on my foot and then turned, twisting my foot beneath his."
He sighed. "Let me fix this?" he asked, looking up at her.
She nodded, biting her lip.
He tried with all of his might to keep his hands from shaking out of nervousness as he took her heel in his hand. That didn't work. So he put himself on one knee and rested her foot on his other leg. He grimaced to himself as he realized bitterly that he was in proposal stance. Only if he were to say those words, she'd probably kick him in the head, despite her broken toe.
Draco healed the broken toe, then the bleeding ones, then the bruises. Hermione said nothing through the entire process, only sucked in her breath when she felt a little pain. When he finished, he set her foot down on the carpet.
"Wiggle," he said.
She did, and then smiled warmly at him. "All better."
"Good," he said and then sat on the floor, suddenly feeling a little sick from all the heavy drinks and drama of the evening.
"Thank you," she said softly, after a moment of silence passed.
"You're welcome," he replied. They looked at each other and he watched as her eyes were first friendly, then surprised, then completely closed and resigned. Like she had only just then realized that they were in a room all alone.
She wiggled her toes again and looked at the door and sighed. "I'm not exactly anxious to dance right now." She looked at him. "But you should get back to your date," she said with a sudden sneer he hadn't known she possessed.
He blinked.
"She's-"
"Whatever, Malfoy. Like I care." Hermione bent to either examine her toes or avoid meeting his eyes.
Draco frowned at her use of his surname. That actually hurt. Her sudden anger was confusing; if she truly didn't care, she wouldn't have brought it up or reacted the way she did. The thought sobered him. She still cared about him, in some way at least.
"I can explain," he started, suddenly tired of the forced distance between them, but then he didn't know what he'd actually say.
"How long have you two been together?" she asked, cocking her head to the side and giving him a Mrs. Weasley look.
"I just met her tonight."
Her jaw dropped for the umpteenth time since he'd sat down to dinner. "What? Then what was all that-that-garbage at dinner?"
He grimaced. "Something of a ... joke gone bad."
"A joke? Well, I don't think it was very funny."
He shrugged. "Nor did I, actually. Pansy ... was trying to help."
"Help? With what?"
Draco thought quickly. "She reckoned I might be uncomfortable at a table with threecouples and wanted me to have someone to talk to." He thought he saw her recoil slightly.
She ignored his jab. "Uh-huh. Well, you pretty much ruined dinner for everyone."
"Luna didn't seem bothered," he added, his frustration building. Why was she being so snippish? "Dinner was ruined for Neville when he spilled his wine on his shirt, and ... and Fred probably didn't notice a thing, he was so busy staring down your dress!"
"Jealous?" Her face turned bright red the instant the words were out, and it was obvious she had spoken without thinking.
"The day I am jealous of Fred Weasley is the day I break my wand and go live among the Muggles." His reaction was instinctive, drawn from years of self-preservation and he lied through his teeth, but she was too flustered to notice.
She opened her mouth to speak but the door burst open and in came the red-headed joker himself-Fred.
"Hermione! Are you okay?"
She sent Draco one last conflicted glare, then said, "Yes, I am, Fred. Thank you."
Fred turned to Draco, who was still sitting on the floor with his arms resting on his bent knees. "Hey, thanks, mate."
Draco merely nodded, and watched numbly as Fred led Hermione out of the room. His insides, which had been boiling from jealousy and anger moments before, were now frozen. He replayed the last few minutes in his mind. How had the conversation taken that particular turn? He had been insanely jealous all through dinner, of course, but he knew he hadn't let it show. He was too good at masking his emotions to have been careless.
That meant her reaction had come from somewhere else, though he couldn't imagine its source. Prior to that evening, he hadn't even known about her and Fred, so it didn't make any sense.
I Unless ... /I He shook his head. i She /i wasn't the jealous one, she couldn't be ... That made no sense either.
After a few minutes, he found his way back into the ballroom, back to the bar, and ordered the strongest thing they had, no longer concerned with appearances. Kara came up to him, and he made it quite clear that he wanted nothing at all to do with her. Only by chance did he notice that Hermione had been watching the exchange, a look of interest, albeit cool and reserved, on her face, and he was a little glad she'd seen. Maybe then she'd believe him-yet she might still think poorly of him for carrying on with Kara for no apparent reason.
Oh well. No one had ever accused him of being a good person and certainly not a perfect one. He made mistakes and plenty of them. Maybe he tried to be good, but he knew for sure he wasn't any good at it. He would always have that streak of nasty running through his blood. His pure blood.
"Having fun, Draco?" said Pansy, stopping beside him.
He scowled. "Tons." Then he looked at her. "Where do you know Kara from, anyway?"
"Marseilles. Why was dinner awful?"
He shook his head with a shudder. "Kara was ... a bit too convincing and I played along a little too well. I ... think Harry wants to pull my fingernails out with pliers and string me up by my hair. And Hermione ..." He took a drink from his glass.
"I'm so sorry, Draco! I had no idea! I only wanted you to have someone to talk to, and someone who would show some interest in you. Just, you know, so Hermione wouldn't think you never go out."
"I don't go out, Pansy. She knows that." He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "You tried. Thanks. I gotta go."
"It's not midnight!"
He looked at her pointedly.
"Oh, fine. You can go."
He chuckled. "I'm glad I have your leave."
She smiled at him reluctantly. "As though I could ever make you do something you didn't want to do."
"Lovely evening, Pansy," he said, trying to sound sincere before kissing her cheek. "Happy Christmas."
"I'll see you soon, okay?"
Draco nodded and finished his drink, then set the empty glass on the table. He felt oddly sober considering the amount of alcohol he'd consumed. Had Pansy requested all non-alcoholic drinks? Or had he been through one too many sobering moments that night? No matter. He glanced around the room; Harry and Ginny were dancing, as was Ron, and Pansy was now making her way out to him. He didn't see Hermione or Fred anywhere and it made his blood boil. Stop, leave off, he scolded himself, and promptly left the room.
He was walking through the main hallway toward the door when he heard his name.
"Malfoy."
Draco stopped. He knew that voice. A dozen emotions coursed through him, the good ones overpowering the negative, and so he did not simply resume his path and ignore her. He counted to ten before turning around. "Granger."
She'd walked right up to him, stopping a few feet away. Her demeanor suggested that she'd either had enough alcohol that she didn't care about what she'd blurted earlier or she was ignoring it. She stood with her hands on her hips in the gesture that Ginny did so well. He couldn't help but think that she looked endlessly adorable.
"Why are you leaving?" she asked in a voice that said she was itching to run and tattle on him.
"Why do you care?" he snapped, mentally exhausted from the constant effort of behaving antagonistically toward her. It was much easier for him to behave naturally around her.
"It's not midnight yet. Pansy wants everyone to stay until midnight. Something about a special presentation or guest arriving ..."
"Since when do I do what people want me to do? And what concern is it of yours?"
She opened her mouth to speak, then thought better of it. After a moment's pause, she replied. "None, of course. I just don't want an angry Pansy on my hands."
"Pansy knows I'm leaving, that these ... affairs aren't my thing. She knows me."
Hermione frowned at him sadly. "I thought I knew you too," she said, and turned to leave.
Draco wanted to call after her, to demand that she explain her declaration, but his thoughts were interrupted. She had taken a few steps when an unknown force propelled her back toward him. He caught her to steady her so she wouldn't fall, and she rounded on him, a murderous look in her eyes.
"Let me go."
He released her, putting his hands up. She tried to walk away, glaring over her shoulder, but the same thing happened-she ended up in his arms. This time she pushed him away.
"Malfoy, what are you doing?" she asked angrily.
"Nothing at all. Why are you getting so angry?"
"Because. You-you're impossible. And infuriating, and-"
"None of that can possibly be news to you." He kept his features controlled, displaying a slightly indignant expression, but inside he wanted to shake her and ask exactly when she had decided that he was impossible to be around, and how he was so infuriating. "Besides, you're not exactly easy to be around, either."
"Oh my, this will be fun," came a third voice. Both Hermione and Draco looked around for its source.
"Over here," it called. "On the wall."
To Draco's left was a painting of an old man. He had a red and white beard, bright blue eyes, a freckled face and a smug grin. He looked like a cross between Dumbledore and Ron.
"What are you talking about?" demanded Hermione.
The portrait hummed and slowly looked up at something over their heads. So Draco and Hermione looked up too.
Draco recognized it first, and whipped his head down to look at Hermione, eyes wide. He felt a little sick. He knew Pansy, and he knew what that ... stuff hanging above their heads was. It was another one of her ideas she thought was witty.
Hermione met his gaze and narrowed her eyes at him. "What is that?" she asked, pointing above her.
"What do you think, Hermione?"
She paled. "Is it really?"
"Afraid so," the painting interrupted. "Miss Parkinson likes her little fun. "That's the notorious Mistletoe, Viscum album. Parasitic plant, actually. Bloke by the name of Baldur died from its poison, and-""
Draco groaned. "It's more than just the plant, though."
"What do you mean?" Hermione asked.
"I've been prey to Pansy's magical mistletoe before. I can easily get us out of this little situation."
"What situation?" She asked, exasperated, crossing her arms.
"Er ..." He felt the heat rush into his cheeks and stopped.
"Allow me," said the painting. "You may have noticed that you're unable to walk away from the young man. That is because the mistletoe was charmed to secure a kiss from any unwitting couple who happened to walk beneath it." Hermione gaped at the painting. "In other words, you can't leave until you plant one on him."
She sucked in her breath. "I am not kissing him."
Draco felt a little hurt. Wounded pride, and all that. "Oh, it won't be that bad, Granger. You'll live through it. Might even enjoy it."
Hermione refused to look at him.
Draco didn't think, just grabbed her wrist and before she knew what was happening, pulled her close to him. She gasped and tried to get away, fighting him with every movement.
"Be still, Granger."
"My nameis Hermione!"
He blinked. Well, that was a nice, convenient double standard. He grabbed her wrist and hesitantly pulled her hand up to his mouth like a gentleman from an age past. She froze, her eyes wide, as he nodded politely and kissed her hand. She jerked it away, but her gaze never left his. There was something new in her eyes too; she seemed genuinely surprised and affected by his gesture.
"There. You should be free to go now."
Hermione just stared at him, holding her hand at an odd angle. She turned and walked away from him, only to be pulled back once more. This time, he wasn't expecting it, and she knocked into him, sending them both to the floor.
"Merlin! Malfoy, what are you playing at?"
He stood quickly and brushed himself off. He reached a hand down to help her up, which she only stared at. "Draco," he said, giving her a stern look and retracting his hand. Then he frowned, and shrugged. "It used to work..."
The painting cackled. "Miss Parkinson said she used to put that little loophole in for any of her boys that got stuck with someone called Millicent. Now you have to actually kiss. On the mouth." The old man laughed merrily. "Oh, and you two seem to hate each other! This is the most fun I've had in, well, too long."
"We don't hate each other," Hermione snapped at the jovial work of art.
Draco looked at her. "You've done good job of acting like you hate me."
She looked at him. "Well, I don't," she said quietly.
He softened. "You know I don't hate you, right?"
She nodded.
"Then why are we acting like this?" He wanted to ask why she was acting like this, as he hadn't changed in his behavior, but thought it best not to. They were actually talkingabout it, which was near to a miracle.
She looked away. "It's...complicated." She was still sitting on the floor, her pretty dress getting rumpled, but not seeming to care one bit. He smiled; he missed that, too. He watched her sigh and pull her knees to her chest, resting her chin on them.
"You're not going to tell me what's going on, are you?" he asked.
She shook her head. "I can't. I'm sorry; I wish I could."
"You can, but you just won't."
She shrugged. "I suppose. Same difference."
He sat down too, not wanting her to have to strain her neck to talk to him. After a few minutes of silence, he said, "You're getting your dress wrinkled."
She laughed, and looked up. He was surprised to see that her eyes were bright and shiny, as if she'd been crying.
He frowned, wanting suddenly to be able to comfort her; their entire disagreement, the last two-and-a-half months, the fact that she was at the party with Fred, everything was forgotten. "Hermione, are you all right?"
"Yeah, fine." She looked away and casually wiped her eyes and he knew she didn't want him to know she'd been crying.
"Please," he said quietly and she looked back at him. "Did I-I mean, was there something-" Just then a cheer went up from down the hall, in the ballroom.
"It must be close to midnight," she said.
"Hermione, talk to me." His gut was a mass of twisted nerves, axons firing spasmodically. If she did, if there was something bothering her other than the amusement park, if he'd hurt her unknowingly, if there was something he could make right, then nothing in the entire world would stop him.
She hesitated, as though she seriously wanted to tell him, but was still fighting with herself about it. She shook her head and sniffed. "Let's just-get this over with. Okay?"
Draco nodded and stood, feeling as though someone had slammed into his lungs, forcing all the air out, and he couldn't draw another breath. He offered his hand to her once again; this time she accepted it. And quick as a wink, his hands were suddenly sweaty and his mouth had gone dry. An awful, pleasant swirling sensation burst into furious motion in his stomach. She inched closer to him, and he saw that her breathing was ragged and shallow. Then she stopped, still too far away. He would have to go the rest of the way to her.
He took one step to close the distance between them. Hermione was staring directly forward, at his chest. He reached up and took her chin in his hand, gently tilting her head up toward his. She looked at him, and her eyes were clear, now full of that other something he'd seen before when he'd kissed her hand. And he still didn't know what it was. They just looked at each other for what seemed an eternity. Her eyes were swirling, searching his. They showed a hint of fear, but not fear of him, per se. She blinked, and then swallowed.
He thought he should probably say something-something witty to ease the tension, or suave to increase it. But he didn't think either of them would be able to hear over the hammering of his heart, or the questions in her eyes.
As he brought his face closer to hers, she kept her eyes locked with his, as though she were anchoring herself to him. When his lips were an inch from hers, she shut her eyes tight, took a shallow breath, and a pleasant sigh escaped her lips.
Draco paused in his descent, smiling to himself before gently, lightly covering her lips with his. Her lips were soft and warm and they shot a fire through him that he felt in the deepest part of his soul. He felt, almost imperceptibly, the remaining distance between their bodies lessen. He didn't move right away though he knew-something wasscreaming at him-that he should. It took every ounce of strength he had to pull away from her seconds later.
When they parted, she was looking at him with such depth of emotion that he was sure she would drown him. Slowly, she put distance between them, never breaking their eye contact. He couldn't move, as he wasn't sure his knees would support him.
"It should work now," he said hoarsely, also unsure of his voice.
She nodded and walked away, until she was well beyond where the invisible boundary had been, and then turned around to look at him. Neither spoke, they only looked at each other, Draco fighting hardthe urge to go to her and take her in his arms and continue what they'd started, now that he trusted his legs again.
Then she disappeared back into the ballroom.
Draco stood rooted to the spot.
"Well, I need a cold shower," said the portrait.
Draco snapped back to life and glared at it, then turned and left the house to the sound of cheering and clapping and merry-wishing ringing in his ears