Crash and Burn

"We'll have to find another excuse for snogging," Harry panted groggily. He had a painful stitch in his side - like an arrow driving beneath his ribs - because he had run from Gryffindor Tower to the Slytherin Dungeons without stopping for breath. He had never known he could run that fast, but apparently thinking of Draco had given him wings (which was a quite disturbing change of mentality, which Harry tried not to think about too often). " 'Quidditch practice' isn't cutting it anymore. Nothing gets past Hermione."

"It was quite stupid of you, saying that without even stopping to think whether or not you actually had practice," agreed Draco with a sneer. He was leaning casually against a stone wall, inspecting his fingernails - or as Harry called them, claws, because they sometimes dug holes in his robes, during their intense make-out sessions.

"I forgot," Harry said. "It happens to everyone."

"You forgot? You've been on the Gryffindor Quidditch team for seven years now and you still don't know when you have practice? Shockingly pathetic, Potter."

"Oh, shove off," snapped Harry, curling his fists instinctively in his robe pockets.

Draco made no reply - he took out a tiny jade-handled pocketknife and ran its silver blade along the sides of his fingers, just lightly enough to tickle his skin. Harry had nothing to say, and he stood there feeling stupid, until the silence became unbearab-le and he began to whistle. The sound - a surprisingly melodious one - seemed to tug Draco out of a daydream. His head snapped up, and he said: "Harry, Harry, Harry - " sounding very much like a Lockhart clone - "I've noticed that you've never taken me out to dinner."

"We've only been dating for a few days!"

"So?"

Harry thought about that, about what it would be like to take Draco out in Hogsmeade. He would certainly cause a sensation if he was seen sharing a meal with his nemesis. But pleasant as the thought seemed, he was up to his neck in undone homework, and thinking of the Witch Weekly articles that such an outing would generate was enough to make him break out in a cold sweat. "D'you think you deserve to be taken to dinner?" he asked.

"Is the Pope a Catholic?" answered Draco.

There was no way out of this, or if there was, Harry couldn't see it, and either way it wasn't worth fighting over. "Fine, Draco, I'll take you to a nice restaurant in Hogsmeade," he conceded.

Draco snorted. "I'll pick the place, thank you very much. Knowing you, it would be a fish-and-chips place."

"There's nothing wrong with fish and chips," Harry said staunchly.

"I'm a vegetarian," Draco declared, with the air of one giving out state secrets. "So I don't eat fish and chips, Potter."

"You could eat the chips," Harry pointed out helpfully.

Draco sniffled, and made a face. "Those chips are practically bathing in fat," he said. "I wouldn't be caught dead with them in my mouth. Although, to be fair, after having had your tongue in it..."

Harry turned red. He was used to Draco insulting him; how many cruel words had Draco not flung at him, like sharp stones at a leper, for the past seven years? But this was far more personal, suddenly, after all the times the two had met each other in dark, dank room closets, fingers digging into the other's skin, with moaned, half-formed syllables filling the air, and a trail of clumsy butterfly kisses fluttering down Draco's neck - Harry blinked hard. He was getting carried away. "You can't complain," he said, his voice smooth, "seeing as you're the one who wanted my tongue in your mouth in the first place."

"As I recall, you were not at all opposed to the idea," Draco retorted. He snapped his pocketknife shut and dropped it into his pocket. "In fact, it seemed to excite you considerably."

"Yeah, but... oh, let's not argue," said Harry, deflated by the absence of a good comeback inside his head.

"Fine," said Draco. "Tomorrow, at eight-thirty, near the portrait of Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington."

Draco, Harry reflected, was the only person in Hogwarts who ever called Nearly Headless Nick by his full name. He was about to turn around and tell him so - but Draco was already gone.

* * *

That night, while she was slowly undoing her long, think braid, Hermione's eyes filled with tears. They streaked down her cheeks, clouding her vision, until she could only see Harry, entering the common room, saying "Quidditch practice". She ran the hairbrush through her curls very slowly, as though it was causing her a great deal of pain. It wasn't. The images dancing through her head were hurting her, imagines of Harry and some girl - the thought that it might be a boy did not occur to her - sneaking around in dark hallways, under Harry's invisibility cloak, inside broom closets. Quidditch practice quidditch practice quidditch practice - quidditch practice, my ass! She quickly set the brush on her vanity table and closed her eyes, blocking out the world.

She wondered why the thought of Harry having a girlfriend upset her so much. She had never thought that she had a crush on him, or loved him other than in a friendly way. Sure, once or twice, during a boring History of Magic class, she had stared at the back of his neck and fantasized about kissing him, and once she had dreamt about the two of them making love, and had woken up sweaty and disturbed. She had come to the conclusion, a long time ago, that no female could spend as much time around Harry Potter as she had, and not fall a bit in love with him. But since her tiny crush was easy to ignore, and not an obsession like Ginny's, and since all the teenage psychology books she had consulted had told her that her feelings were perfectly normal, she could safely ignore it.

Besides, it was hypocritical of her to be angry at Harry for hiding a relationship when she herself was dating a boy and hadn't told anybody about it.

Terry Boot of Ravenclaw, Head Boy. Perfect match, since she was Head Girl. It happened every year, the two Heads going out, and that was why Hermione hadn't said anything - she didn't want anyone to tell her that it wouldn't last, that they were subconsciously following tradition, because she was convinced it wouldn't be true. Not in their case.

You're jealous, Hermione, a little voice - of Reason? - hissed in her ear.

Am not, Hermione stubbornly thought. In fact, it's not so much that he's seeing someone, it's that he hasn't told me. And this was very nearly true; she had always seen herself as an open, broad-minded person, and had always wanted her friends to know that they could tell her anything and she would understand, so for her best friend to not want to tell her something as silly as "Hey, I have a girlfriend" stung. A lot.

* * *

Harry waited, pressed against a wall, his fingers kneading the tense muscles at the back of his neck. His other hand, hidden in his pocket, played with his watch. Draco was late. But Draco was never late, the Malfoy family's punctuality being something that he had bragged about so often that his exact words were engraved in Harry's mind - came in just as the clock struck eight, and everyone said... Always where we need to be, when we need to be... perfect timing, perfect timing, perfect timing.

Had something happened to him? Something... bad?

The very thing seemed unlikely. Draco was invulnerable, perfect, indestructible, nothing could possibly try to hurt him and succeed.

So then, where was he?

Harry checked his watch with a sigh: 8:34. Four minutes late. Then it occurred to him to wonder whether he had been had. Maybe Draco had just been stringing him along, like Harry had thought at first. But, like everyone, he had fallen for the Slytherin's charm, and became a Malfoy victim among so many others. Harry fought tears at the thought. Six days had been enough for him to fall in love with the boy.

But still... Likely Malfoy - nervously, he switched back to Draco's last name in his thoughts - likely Malfoy had planted magic buttonhole cameras somewhere - maybe in Nick's portrait's eyes, that would explain why they looked like they were moving, a while ago - maybe later he would have a good laugh over the tapes with his Slytherin buddies. "Look at Potter, who actually showed up, and who's still waiting for me even though I'm four whole minutes late. And he's looking all lost like a dog without his master. Ha! He really fell for it."

At that thought, Harry felt as though h's stomach was knotting up and exploding simultaneously.

"Harry! Long time no talk. I'm glad to see you. The most absurd rumours floating around... You and Draco Malfoy?"

Harry jumped. When at first he had heard a voice, he had assumed it was Draco, and had relaxed; but this was not Draco's slow, mocking drawl, and Harry's shoulders tensed again. He turned around; Nearly Headless Nick had popped out of his own portrait, and was hovering a few inches off the ground, watching Harry with a fatherly look.

"Uh... hi, Nick," stammered Harry.

"I was hoping you could clarify - oh, hell. Please confirm the rumours, Harry," Nick said, a pleading tone in his voice.

"I.. Confirm?"

"Malfoys are the most delightful partners imaginable," Nick explained avidly. "Well, perhaps not delightful, but certainly interesting. Why, I remember, in my youth - long ago, I fear - I escorted a young damsel of the name Lucrezia Malfoy to the theatre. Quite the interesting companion, Lucrezia. I would have made her my wife had I not learned that she was a man-eater."

"A... what?"

"A cannibal. Word had it that she ate men who did not... come up to her standards. I never found out if that was true, but I decided not to wait and see."

"Well." Harry pondered what to say. "Me and Draco. Draco and I, I mean -"

"You're waiting for him right now, aren't you?"

"... Yes."

"I thought so. My warmest congratulations, Harry. You must have made quite the impression on young Malfoy, or he wouldn't have sent you a second glance." And with those words of wisdom, Nick faded, then disappeared.

And then it was eight-forty two, and the hallway was silent once more.

"I'm glad to see you're actually here. I thought you'd either be late or forget about me, irresponsible as you always are. But you're here, and I'm pleased."

This was Draco's silky voice; it felt like music to Harry's ears. "I'm pleased," Draco had said. He had, for the first time as far as he knew, pleased the ice statue that was Draco Malfoy.

"You're late," Harry said lamely, the words echoing accusingly in the empty hallway.

A smile curled the edges of his lips. "My hair," he said, "took longer than expected to dry. Believe me, Harry, looking as stunning as I do is sometimes a pain. Thought, for the most part, it is a gift." And he looked so solemn and weird that Harry felt like saluting. But instead he said "Shut up," in an affectionate way. He struggled to control his emotions, not wanting the other boy to know how deeply he cared for him.

"Right. How about dinner?"

Harry nearly gasped. Another surprise! "Right", Draco had said. Submissive for once! Harry decided to take advantage of this pleasant twist, and said, "I want to go somewhere where I can eat a good, juicy rib-steak." He watched the blood drain out of Draco's face.

"Disgusting, Harry. Did you not think of the poor cow that died for that rib-steak? It had a face, it had a name, once upon a time. "

"This from the boy wearing leather trousers?"

Draco had the decency to blush, and fell silent.

"Why are you a vegetarian in the first place?" Harry demanded.

"I taste better without all those nasty toxins in me," Draco answered with an impish grin. "But. you've never tasted Malfoy, have you?"

Harry blushed furiously, his mouth opening and closing.

"I assure you," Draco went on, "I come with my own silver platter."

"I thought you'd come with me," Harry mused. Draco stared at him for a second, then burst out laughing, partly shocked and partly amused.

"Your first-ever dirty thought, Potter. Bravo."

"Right," Harry said. "How about dinner?"

* * *

Dinner that night was very quiet for the two young men sitting across one another at a candlelit table in Le Restaurant Legume - Draco had insisted on candles, and Harry had complied, although in the dim light he couldn't see Draco so well. Draco daintily plucked the olives from his Greek salad, and swallowed them, the juice trickling down his chin. Harry stared, mesmerized, as Draco's tongue licked the juice and returned to the red haven that was his mouth. Harry then remembered to eat, and tore his eyes away from his date long enough to blindly chomp on the croutons in his Caesar salad.

"Hey, I just thought of something," he said suddenly. "It's been scientifically proven than vegetables feel pain. How do you know that tomato there wasn't screaming inside when they chopped her up?"

"Scientifically proven by Muggles," said Draco, but he paled a bit.

"What's wrong with Muggles?" asked Harry defensively.

"If you don't know, I'm not going to tell you."

"You're acting like a child," Harry accused.

"Whereas you always behave so maturely," scoffed Draco.

Harry pouted and turned his attention back to his plate. Draco looked at him, steadily and proudly and somewhat indulgently, as one would regard a person whom one has loved for a long time. "You look nice tonight," he said.

Harry feigned a disbelieving gasp. "Draco!" he said. "Did you just compliment me on my looks? You? What happened to your 'death to Potter and Muggles, long live Snape' attitude?"

"I don't know," said Draco with surprise. "It just sort of - disappeared, I guess."

"Either way, you need me," said Harry. "If you love me or hate me, you need me. To kiss or hit - either way."

"Nobody fulfills my needs like you do," smirked Draco, and it was true, kissing Harry was a surprisingly pleasant experience, although sometimes he did wish Harry would stop being such a prude and let him go further.

Harry blushed bright pink, an his eyes turned a paler shade of green, like a leaf-bud in the spring.

"I didn't really want to go out for dinner," Draco went on. "I could, after all, have eaten at Hogwarts. But. you understand."

Harry understood. Draco needed to be reassured that his charms had worked; that Harry wasn't indifferent to him; that he wasn't in it just for the exceptional snogging; that he didn't mind to be seen with Draco in public - although, to be honest, who would?

"Yes."

"Come to think of it, I'm not so hungry... if you get my drift."

"I do."

"Let's go, then."

"Let's," said Harry decidedly.

Their chairs scraped across the floor as they got up.

* * *

"Mm..."

"Oh gods - "

"You taste so good," Harry whispered, his hands trailing languidly down Draco's sides, warm and eager.

"I know," Draco answered, but not in the usual bragging tones; he sounded as though he was amazed of his own hidden talents, of the dexterity of his fingers as they tousled Harry's already-mussed hair. "So do you," he added modestly. He thoroughly enjoying the heat of Harry's body against his. He couldn't feel the cold stones that made up the wall he was pinned on.

"Why, thank you," said Harry between kisses.

Draco's arms snaked around Harry's toned body, and he pressed up against him, desperately seeking warmth. He revelled in the kiss; Harry revelled in Draco's delightful little moans of pleasure. "I love you," he whispered, pessing his body to Draco's until not even air came between them. Draco cupped Harry's face, his hands very cold but getting warmer by the second.

Change of heart much? Draco thought with a smirk that Harry didn't notice. Less than ten days ago you hated my guts. Such is my talent...

But he had to say them; the four little words that he knew would make Harry's day; he had to speak the truth, they were burning his tongue, pressing against his teeth like rebellious minions.

"I love you too," he answered lightly, before returning to nibbling Harry's lower lip.

* * *

Hermione rounded a corner, slightly out of breath. She was trying to get to the library as quickly as possible, to return Dragons: Not Just for Trousers, and to borrow Minotaur: A Myth? before Terry got his hands on it - they were constantly competing for the latest, thickest books, which Hermione thought very cute, although she was aware that most other people would gag and roll their eyes if they knew.

As she approached the staircase that led to the library, clutching the book to her chest, she heard moaning - most likely coming from directly beneath the stairs. She was suddenly possessed by the urge to lean over the stairwell and see who it was. She grinned wickedly in the semi-darkness, her repressed girlie-gossip side starting stir. If it's anyone I know, I could... blackmail them with this information, she said to herself, and then chided herself for that thought. Blackmail is something Lavender Brown would do, not me. Blackmail's beneath me. But she couldn't help taking a step forwards and gripping the rail. She arched her neck, trying to see.

There was nobody there.

Hermione frowner and rubbed her eyes, and took another look.

Still nobody, but distinct low groans could be heard. There was a soft hissing noise, as of someone breathing out through their teeth. Convinced that her eyes had been damaged from too much reading in candlelight, Hermione pulled out her wand. "Oculis!" she whispered, as quietly as she could. Then she leaned down again.

The spot beneath the stairs was still deserted, but Hermione heard a voice say, "God, you're going to kill me someday." The disembodied whisper made chills run down her back. The voice was somewhat familiar... she couldn't quite place it, but she had heard it before.

Then, in what was certainly an unfortunate series of events, Harry dropped his Cloak as he locked his arm around Draco's body. The Cloak slithered down Draco's shoulders and down to the floor, looking like a pool of liquid light. Unaware that they were perfectly visaible, the two boys went on kissing - by this point, Draco's hand was on Harry's chest, beneath his shirt; he could feel Harry's heartbeat against his palm.

And just twenty steps above them, Hermione clapped her hands to her mouth. She had to bite down on her fingers to keep from screaming. There was no mistaking who the two were, she had seen the lighting scar and the silvery hair. She opened her mouth, but no sound came. She seemed to be rooted to the ground, and only when she heard Harry say throatily, "You're wonderful," did she react.

Even though it was childish, even though it would only make things worse - even though it made no sense, Hermione brought her arm forward and threw her library book toward them. She didn't stop to see if it had hit its target.

She spun around and ran.

* * *

Later, standing in the small bathroom that she had all to herself - yet another advantage to being Head Girl - Hermione tried to see herself in the steam-covered mirror. She had come to shower, but she found herself unable for a reason she could not comprehend. The hot water was still running, but she made no move but turn it off. Raising a world-weary finger, she traced a circle though the fog on the looking glass to see her reflection.

Brown eyes.

Frizzy hair - it could usually be tamed to curl or wave, but it always curled when humid - braided, hanging down her back.

Small nose - nothing like Ron's.

Wide mouth.

Pale cheeks.

She was suddenly overcome with hatred towards that one plait of hers. She was the only seventh-year with such a ridiculous hairstyle, save a few Hufflepuffs and one lone Ravenclaw; the other girls let their hair loose, or styled it in elegant chignons, or preppy ponytails and bobs. Never plaits.

Maybe that was the reason Harry had walked past her instead of putting her on the list of potential girlfriends. Maybe that was why he'd turned towards Malfoy instead; she'd never seen him with plaits. Hermione's thoughts continued in that vein for quite a while, despite the fact that she knew she was being completely ridiculous. She kept wondering what her life would be like now if she and Harry had been boyfriend and girlfriend in fifth year, when she'd wanted him in that way. She had been in love with him then, and maybe she still would be if he'd bothered looking at her twice. Perhaps they'd be mad about each other, living the Romance of the Century, making Witch Weekly headlines every other day.

She seized the scissors lying on the small vanity - a gift from Lavender, who had insisted that she have it - in one hand, and her fat braid in the other.

Snip.

Snap.

A puddle of reddish-brown tresses fell at her feet. Gone was the plait. But she kept on cutting - her one-waist-length hair now came up to her chin, unevenly. By now the steam had gone. She looked up at herself, thinking that she looked very strange without all the hair to frame her face. This new coiffure seemed to make her eyes bigger and her face more narrow. The effect was striking. Different. I look so different. This is not me. This is a girl Harry Potter could fall in love with, if he wasn't too busy fucking Malfoy to see me.

But...

Terry.

He sprung into her mind unexpectedly, like a slap in the face when one was expecting a kiss; she had been thinking solely of Harry and her hair until that point. But now she flinched inwardly at the idea of her boyfriend, who loved her, and how she was nearly planning to two-time him with this desire to get Harry the athletic midget to love her like that.

"Oh God," she muttered, hiding her face in her hands - she couldn't even look herself in the eye now. And Terry had especially loved her hair; he incessantly played with it when they were together, twirling it around his fingers, pulling the strands lightly to stretch them out, then letting go to let them curl back again. "Like an auburn waterfall," he'd said, "don't ever cut it off, Hermione. Let it grow. Your hair is so beautiful." The sweetest thing a member of the opposite sex had ever said to her; the words rang crystal-clear in her ears. He had such a way of speaking, intense but calm all at once; his words seemed grandiose and some people thought he overdid it with the big "dictionary words" but they seemed so simple and - most of all - true to her. He was so sincere, his honesty was written on his face like a script.

What had she done?

And for a boy who'd never noticed her and never would now that he was a couple with Draco?

Hermione cursed her idiocy.

* * *

Draco's storm-gray eyes met Harry's jade ones in a desperate battle of wills.

"Yes," said Draco.

"No," sighed Harry.

"Yes." Stubbornly, Draco narrowed his eyes. Draco's eyes, Harry noted, changed colors. Last night they'd been a soft, tired-looking gray, like storm-clouds that had poured their rain down onto the world and were now impatient to rest. Sometimes they were silverish, dreamy - and on rare occasions they reflected other colors: blues, greens, and reddish hues blended and made his orbs look like a Monet watercolor. Right now they so closely resembled steel, and were so cold, that Harry gulped. He looks like he could kill me if he didn't get his way. Steel. Axes are made from steel. Murderers. Axe-murderers.

"Draco." Harry spoke patiently, sounding as though he was explaining a complex notion to one with an IQ of six. "I'm sorry, but I can't go to clubbing with you in Hogsmeade tonight. I have a feeling that we wouldn't allowed in, first of all - and I have two rolls of parchment on Thessa the Terrible's minions rebelling - for tomorrow, and you know Binns doesn't buy cheap excuses."

"So, homework is more important than me?" Draco said incredulously.

"No, but... Damn, Draco, don't look at me like that! I don't want to have to repeat my seventh year."

"How dare you do this to me. And with Valentine's Day coming up too."

Harry's eyes widened. He had completely forgotten about that... Valentine's Day was ranked among the other Hideously Disgusting things he'd encoutered - such as Voldemort, Flobberworms, and a house-elf drunk on Butterbeer - so naturally he hadn't given it any thought.

"Stupid, pathetic celebration," he grumbled. "Excuse to pig out on chocolates. It's not even a real holiday, it was just invented so that the merchants would make a killing off fuzzy pink heart-shaped pillows. Disgusts me. What about it?"

Now Draco's eyes widened, and Harry would have found it funny, the way he looked so blandly shocked, had the blonde been looking at anyone else. "Stupid pathetic celebration? Excuse to pig out?"

He stood up, so quickly that the book he'd had in his lap - 101 Positions You Never Thought You Were Flexible Enough For, And What To Do Now that You Do Know - skidded across the floor and hit the opposite wall with a hollow thud.

"How could you say that?"

"About Valentine's Day?" Harry asked, flabbergasted. "Admit it, Draco, it's cheesy."

"Oh, fuck you," Draco hissed through clenched teeth, and he turned around and walked off, leaving Harry to stand there, looking quite the fool - as usual, Harry noted bitterly.

Even worse was that he had no clue what he had done wrong, unless expressing his opinion was considered impolite in the Malfoy Book of Etiquette - was there a Malfoy Book of Etiquette? he didn't doubt it... - and it didn't surprise him that it possibly did. He considered, briefly, running after Draco, but thought better of it He'll come after me if he forgives me... but what should he forgive me for? Is he always this unreasonable? Lately, talking to Draco made him feel like he was banging his head very fast on a stone wall - getting nowhere and hurting himself.

Clueless, he bent to pick up the discarded book, and left also.

* * *

Blaise Zabini was up to her neck in work. Her eyes watered and threatened to spill over; it was an allergic reaction to the thick layer of dust that covered the book she was trying - without much success - to read. 791 pages, she groaned inwardly, for next week! McGonagall's finally lost it. She's following in Trelawney's footsteps, that one. Oh well, they do say that senility comes with old age. It's high time she retired anyway...

She did not expect to be bothered, but surprises do exist: a shy male voice asked, "Uh, are you in Slytherin?"

Blaise raised her head. "Yes, Potter, I'm in Slytherin! I'd expect you to be able to recognize your enemies when you see them." She rolled her eyes, irritated, but amused at his look of surprise. "What do you want, Potter?"

"Are you... Are you a friend of Draco's?"

"I'm actually Draco's cousin. I'm also his best friend, and I'm hurt he didn't tell you already." She glared at him with a 'you wanna make something of it?' look.

"Cousins?" echoed Harry. "So you weren't dating a few years ago?"

Blaise blinked and wondered if he'd bothered her just to ask her that stupid question. "No, Potter," she said coldly, "that was a rumour spread around by people who have pathetic, empty lives." She glared even more fiercely at him, straining her eyes. "Incest is sometimes that perhaps - surely, in fact - happens in your family, but mine is above it."

Shit, thought Harry. Another one who thinks she's so hot just because she has Malfoy blood. There was a retort burning his tongue, but he couldn't offend her. Not now. "I'm sorry, Blaise, I shouldn't have asked. I, uh, I need your help with something..."

"Good for you, Potter, admitting you have a problem and need help is the first step towards recovery."

"I... what?!" He frowned. "Shut it. Thing is, I was with Draco and..." He shut his mouth at the last minute, not knowing if she was aware that he and the blonde were a couple.

"Don't worry," she reassured him lazily. "I know. All about it. Draco's very proud of his...conquest, shall I say?" She flashed him a grin, purposely instilling doubt in his heart, wanting to make him wonder whether Draco really loved him or just seduced him to be able to brag about it. Harry could imagine Draco's voice saying, "It makes for good party chit chat: 'Hey, I'm Draco Malfoy and I own the heart of The Boy Who Lived.'"

"Potter, I haven't all day. Get on with it."

He sat down across the table. "See, this is the thing... I was talking to Draco and, well, Valentine's Day popped up and I said I hated it because it's pathetic."

Blaise groaned. "Idiot."

"What?"

"And I'm not insulting you just because you're in Gryffindor and I hate your guts." She narrowed her eyes and glared at him again - exactly like Draco so often did. "I can see you don't have a clue so I'll fill you in: Draco is V-day-obsessed."

"Huh?"

"It's his favorite holiday and he loves it more than Christmas and even his birthday, because he can hardly count the number of Valentines he gets. From girls who love him, from boys who love him, from Snape, from those annoying Veela at Veelas Inc, from Witch Weekly... The point, Potter, is that he adores each and every card he gets from perfect strangers. Last year one girl didn't send a card like she did the year dbefore that and he sulked around for days. So you can imagine how he'd feel if he didn't get one from you."

"Oh... Oh. Oh!" Harry exclaimed. "Oh my God, I'll be dead by tomorrow if I don't fix this... Blaise, you've got to help me!"

"I will not." Blaise gave him a 'go to hell and rot there' look. "It's your mess, you wipe it up."

* * *

Hermione was hiding in the narrow space between two bookshelves. She had run out of her dormitory at the last minute, knowing that her pride would prevent her from going ballistic if she was in a room with other people. If she stayed alone, she might self-destruct, and she was fighting to stay together. She was hiding because she'd spied Harry entering, chatting with Blaise for a bit, then walk out with her; fearing that he'd come back, she had tried to make herself invisible. She didn't want to talk to him. She didn't want to see him.

"Hermione."

She looked up at the quiet voice. "Terry," she acknowledged. The ghost of a smile flitted across her face. Terry could make it all better... he could and he would, wouldn't he? He had to.... She needed him so much although she didn't know it.

"You cut your hair." He sounded shocked and hurt; he seemed to be saying, 'How could you have done such a thing when you knew how much I loved it?'

"Oh, Terry. I'm sorry. I did it before I remembered how much you liked it." With a small shock, she realized that it would take months - perhaps years - before he would be able to run his fingers through her hair again. It did not occur to her that she could regrow it magically.

"It will grow again," he murmured, sounding as though he was consoling himself more than her, "it will be long again before the year is over."

She nodded her assent.

"What were you doing here? You look as though you're hiding - " he leaned forwards, and, his hand snaking around hers, pulled her to her feet. "You're shaking," he noticed. "Are you ill? Perhaps you'd feel better in the hospital wing, under Madam Pomfrey's care, than here, breathing the aroma of dusty leather-bound tomes."

She laughed; it was a hollow sound but the knowledge that she could laugh still, after a shocking discovery such as the one she had made yesterday improved her mood. "I love the way you talk."

"And I'm glad you do, but you haven't answered my question: are you ill?"

She shook her head violently, until it hurt. "No! And I like it, here. It's so quiet. And... peaceful. You understand." She noted that, had she tried to explain why she loved the library to Harry or Ron, she would have felt awkward and nerdy, whereas Terry understood. She never had to try hard to make him see her point; he already knew.

"Yes, I do. Hermione, I wonder why you're in Gryffindor. You belong in Ravenclaw; it's obvious. You're every bit a Ravenclaw. And by that I don't mean that you're not courageous - every respected Gryffindor's trademark! - but you have such a... desperate thirst for knowledge that nothing can quench..."

"Ask the Sorting Hat, Terry, not me. I don't know. I can't honestly say that I regret its decision, though."

"I know."

Terry always knew, Hermione thought happily. She felt suddenly warmer than she had before he'd come, as though his presence was a gust of tropical wind.

"I wanted to ask you something." He clasped her hands, suddenly smiling. "You do know that the Valentine's day dance is in three days?"

"It is?"

He laughed. "Too busy thinking of History of the Veela to remember? Dumbledore told us last week at the Prefect meeting."

She blushed and did not reply.

"Will you do me the honor of escorting me?"

Instead of dutifully answering the question, she stood of the tips of her toes - he was three inches taller than her - and kissed him softly and uncertainly. He was surprised, but soon enough his hand pressed against her back, steadying her, and the other hand gently stroked her face.

She realized, at that moment - clichéd as it seemed - that no matter how much she mooned over Harry and Draco, she'd always come back to Terry n the end. He was a perfect male version of her, albeit a tad melancholy; he understood her completely; he knew what it meant to be an overachiever, a "know-it-all", what it meant to get grades that were above every teacher's standards. They thought the same way; he was she and she was he.

Gathering courage, she pressed her lips against his, and her arms found a place around his neck. "Mmrrf," she murmured, desperately trying to get closer, unable to remember when she'd felt this way about any other boy, because she hadn't.

All too soon she ran out of air. She struggled for a few seconds, between pulling away and getting a lungful of air, or stay pressed against Terry and choke. Fortunately she remembered that she had a nose, and breathed through it.

"Is that a yes?"

She had been so wrapped up in - in what? - in how it felt to kiss Terry that she hadn't noticed that the kiss itself had been broken. "Of course it is," she replied, flustered.

"I wish I got an answer along those lines each time I asked you something," Terry said, grinning wickedly.

Hermione gave him a mock-glare and laughed. Terry, instead of smiling back, frowned in a pensive way at her, and took hold of her hand. "What is it?" she asked, a bit of fear showing in her eyes.

"You really look dreadfully ill. You're skinny, pale as a corpse, with black circles underneath your eyes - " he traced them with his fingers - "and I think you should be in the infirmary, not in the library. I'm serious, Hermione, you look as though you might faint any minute. I'm worried."

"It's just studying too much," she argued, feeling twinges of guilt for lying to him - she hadn't opened a book in days. "For crissakes, I'm not going to die. All I need is a good night's rest."

"All the same, I'd feel better if I knew you were in Madam Pomfrey's good hands." He put an arm firmly around her waist, his other hand still clasping hers, and walked her out of the library, down several staircases, and into the infirmary.

It wasn't empty of patients as Hermione had supposed it would be. A bed in the far corner of the room had someone in it. She leaned closer, curiosity getting the better of her -

"'Lo, Hermione," Harry Potter said.

"Ah..." At a loss for words for the first time, Hermione stared. She managed to say, "What the hell happened to you? You look like shit." Behind her, Terry snorted in agreement.

"It's just a black eye and a broken nose," Harry said defensively. I should have ducked, but I didn't know he had an aim that good...

"Yeah, whatever," said Hermione.