We'll Always Have Paris

Author’s Notes: As always, thanks to Plu and Liss for their exceptional beta jobs. With everything going on in their lives, they always show up, ready to give 100%. Thanks guys! *blows kisses* There’s only 2 chapters left in this already long story. Well, more like one chapter and an epilogue.

We’ll Always Have Paris
Chapter 15

every moment marked
with apparitions of your soul
I'm ever swiftly moving
trying to escape this desire
the yearning to be near you
I do what I have to do
the yearning to be near you
I do what I have to do
but I have the sense to recognize
that I don't know how to let you go
I don't know how to let you go

-- “Do What You Have To Do” by Sarah McLachlan

“Mr. Malfoy, you’re needed in the Prefects’ office.” Draco’s head snapped up as Professor Flitwick squeaked out his name. He looked around the room at the curious faces of his fellow Slytherins and the few Hufflepuffs who dared to look directly into the face of a Malfoy. For a few seconds, Draco sat motionless in his seat; he hadn’t been back to the Prefects’ office since That Night. The Charms teacher spoke impatiently. “Don’t dawdle, Mr. Malfoy. I’d like to get back to my class.”

The young Slytherin ambled leisurely through the halls; the note Flitwick had handed him hadn’t seemed urgent, just a message from the Head Boy to send Draco to the office. Slowly he turned the corners and climbed the stairs, dreading his return to the scene of the crime. When he reached the solid oak door, he squeezed his eyes shut tight. He had made the same gesture several times in the past few days, but it hadn’t yet succeeded in wiping away the memory of Hermione’s astonished face; still, he could think of no other means of defense.

Her eyes haunted him. Every minute of every day. Awake or asleep.

Telling himself he’d acted to save Hermione’s family didn’t seem to help him either. Though his scene with Lissanne had been a farce, the ache it had created was genuine. He’d thought he’d experienced hell that night, destroying Hermione so maliciously, and that the worst had been over.

What a naïve sod – his hell had only begun.

Ripping Hermione’s heart out of her chest hadn’t been enough – he had to keep twisting the knife to guarantee she’d despise him more with every breath she took. He couldn’t give her the slightest clue that what she’d walked in on had been a sham. If she’d doubted it for a moment, she’d begin probing for the truth, and that wouldn’t lead to a happy ending for anyone … least of all her family.

Suddenly, he realized how ridiculous he must look, standing outside the Prefects’ office, staring at the door like a mindless idiot. He inhaled deeply and then slowly blew the hot air out of his mouth. Suitably composed, he stated the password and turned the knob. “Hello, Duncan<,” he greeted as the door slid open and he spied the Slytherin Head Boy sitting at his desk. “What did you need to see me about?” His voice trailed off noticeably at the end as he noted the other occupants in the room. The curly-haired, bespectacled Ravenclaw Head Girl Ella Bennett was leaning against the window, her eyes fixed on the door as if waiting for him …

… as well as a highly perturbed Hermione, her arms folded stiffly across her chest, determinedly looking at an old, dusty bookcase across the room like its contents were going to be on the NEWTs.

Duncan Fitzwilliam rose at Draco’s entrance. The Head Boy was a tall, broad-shouldered wizard with thick chestnut hair and engaging eyes that changed colours like chameleons. Some days they were pale blue, some days they were deep green, and others they were greyer than Draco’s. They were the eyes of the perfect Slytherin, adjusting effortlessly to fit any and all situations. He’d sell you the shirt off your back, and all the while make you think he was doing you a favour. He created his opportunities in life, using his charm and boyish grin to get what he wanted. His dimples added the perfect touch of trustworthiness. But he was not the kind of wizard one betrayed. Even if the Fitzwilliams were not a family of consequence, everybody at Hogwarts knew never to cross paths with Duncan; his propensity for holding grudges was infamous and his methods of revenge could be quite ingenious. He embodied the best of Slytherin, and even the other houses couldn’t deny that he had been en excellent choice as Head Boy.

Draco’s hand slipped faintly as he closed the door behind him, but then he gripped the doorknob like it was a life preserver saving him from drowning. If it weren’t for the door, the waves of anxiety would certainly have knocked him to the floor like an unfortunate rag doll being tossed about in a choppy sea. He cleared his throat a few times before turning back the others. “What’s this meeting about? Where are the other Prefects?” It was small consolation that his voice didn’t quaver in the slightest as he spoke, thus maintaining his cool, practiced demeanour.

“Hey Draco,” Duncan greeted a little stiffly as he walked around to the front of his desk. He leaned back against it, resting his hands on top as he stretched his long legs before him and crossed them at the ankles. “Have a seat.” He motioned to the chair next to Hermione. Other than her one foot bobbing up and down in annoyance, Hermione was a statue -- stony, expressionless, and unyielding.

Draco walked further into the room, standing next to the chair Duncan had indicated but making no motion to sit in it. “What’s this about?” He noticed the anxious glance Ella shot Duncan before moving from the window and leaning against the desk as well.

Ella Bennett was not a great beauty, but her confidence and intelligence made her stand out from most of the other witches at Hogwarts. She had the highest marks in her class, but she had a great deal of common sense too … and she didn’t let herself get bullied, which was a necessary trait for anyone who shared responsibilities with Duncan Fitzwilliam. Her logical mind and cool head had helped stave off more than one heated debate during the Prefects’ meetings. Though Draco would never admit it to anyone, he thought she was the wiser choice for Head Girl than the Slytherin girl who had also been nominated.

She drew his attention back to the reason for this impromptu meeting with a sigh. The round-faced girl explained, “We wanted to talk to you about your recent behaviour.”

"My behaviour?” Draco asked defensively.

“No, your behaviour,” Ella said, waving her hand between him and Hermione. She sighed again. “I think everyone in this school is aware that you are no longer an item. The details are of no consequence to me, but the ripples it’s creating is getting out of hand.”

“That’s none of your bloody business, Ella,” Draco snapped bitterly, peeved at anyone’s interference into an already emotional situation. He glanced quickly at Hermione, but she was still intently studying the damn bookcase.

The Head Girl was known for her diplomacy, but she was not someone to be trifled with either. She spoke firmly, “It is most certainly my business, Draco, when you abuse your positions as Prefects to lash out at one another.”

Hermione’s head snapped to attention upon hearing this, but her foot continued its nervous bobbing. Draco folded his arms defiantly across his chest. “You’re barking mad, you know that. A sodding loon. I haven’t abused anything.” He turned to his housemate, appealing to his fellow Slytherin to back him up. “Duncan, kindly explain to this misguided Ravenclaw that slandering Malfoys isn’t wise. I can’t believe you pulled me out of class for this.” He spun around quickly and was at the door in two long strides.

“Get back here, Draco,” Duncan’s voice called out. “Ella and I both agreed this matter needed to be handled sooner rather than later. And trust me, you’d rather deal with us instead of McGonagall, which is exactly what you’re facing if you don’t turn around and get back here.” Grudgingly, Draco whirled around, marched to the seat Duncan gestured to, and seated himself with an audible and annoyed huff. “That’s better.”

Ella looked the two students squarely in the eyes. “It has hardly escaped our notice … or the faculty’s … that since your split the tensions between certain members of Gryffindor and Slytherin have escalated, leading to some questionable conduct.” An arrogant chortle escaped Draco’s lips, earning him a stern glance from Ella. “You are Prefects in your respective houses, but instead of trying to smooth over the confrontations, you both seem to fuel them, and that is not appropriate behaviour for people in your position.”

“It’s not my fault most of the Gryffindors aren’t any better than the beasts that oaf Hagrid tries to teach us about,” Draco replied snidely. “They’re savages.”

For the first time since he’d entered the room Hermione turned to look in his direction. Her glacial stare pierced him like icy swords. “Shut your trap, Draco,” she hissed angrily. “You don’t know the first thing about Hagrid; he’s a better man than you’ll ever be. He’s honest and loyal, two concepts which are completely foreign to you, you pretentious prat.”

Draco forced himself to not flinch at the murderous glint in her eyes or turn away from them, but his stomach twisted in torment. “Your friends are savages, Hermione. I lost track of how many times they’ve tried to accost me in the hallways. Can’t you put them on a leash or something?” Her bobbing foot caught his eye and his irritation got the better of him. “And for Merlin’s sake, stop kicking your foot around like that. It’s like a damned pendulum,” he snapped in annoyance.

“It’s my foot and I’ll do whatever I want with it,” she retorted sharply. “Even if that means sticking it up your …”

“People, let’s try and stick to the agenda,” Duncan interjected with an agitated voice, pushing himself away from the desk. “We’re here to discuss your recent actions -- not creative ways to increase each other’s discomfort.”

“Fine,” Draco barked before he slumped into his seat. “But I don’t see why I have to be here for that. It’s those bloody Gryffindors who are doing all the fighting. They’re Hermione’s problem.”

Hermione smirked haughtily at him. “I’m not the one sporting a black eye and a busted lip, Draco. But I guess you’re right; you weren’t actually fighting. The term ‘fighting’ implies doing something other than collapsing to the ground in a heap and wailing like a little girl.”

Draco didn’t have to fake the anger in his voice. “You’re right, Hermione, it’s not fighting when it’s two or three against one. That’s called an ambush. For all that talk about Gryffindor bravery, none of your kind have the guts to take me on one on one; they always have to have one of their cronies to save their weak, pathetic arse.” Subconsciously, his tongue flickered over his not-quite healed, slightly scabbed lip where Weasley had gotten in a lucky shot a couple days ago outside the Transfiguration classroom. Not a day had passed since The Incident that Draco had not been goaded into a scuffle with several Gryffindors over his abhorrent behaviour toward one of their own. As if on cue, the purplish bruise he’d received on his cheek, courtesy of the benevolent and compassionate Harry Potter, pulsed with a dull pain. He turned his furious gaze to the Head Boy. “Do you honestly expect me to do nothing to defend myself against those beasts? A couple of times they pounced on me so fast I didn’t have time to draw my wand. I’ll fight back whenever necessary, but I want it on the record that they always start it.”

“That’s debatable,” Ella commented, eying him doubtfully. “But matters should not even be escalating to such a degree where Slytherins and Gryffindors are fighting between every class.” Her gaze fell upon the Gryffindor Prefect. “That’s just as much your responsibility, Hermione, as it is Draco’s.”

“I can barely tolerate being in the same room with him, let alone get close enough to touch the smarmy git,” she spat out scathingly.

“I know, but from all accounts, you’ve been present at almost every incident involving the Gryffindors and Draco, yet you’ve done nothing to intervene or get them to back off,” Ella explained rationally. “The Gryffindors are your housemates, Hermione, and it’s your duty as Prefect to make them understand that fighting is not condoned … regardless of whether the person deserves it or not.” Draco bristled at her implication, but hadn’t she spoken the truth? “You need to explain that pummeling his face into a bloody pulp helps no one … least of all you.”

Draco interjected. “I take offense to that. A few lucky shots and a miniscule scratch on my lip hardly constitute a ‘bloody pulp.’” Duncan shot him a warning look, his brows forming a sharp V as his chameleon-like eyes narrowed. Draco knew his dimples would not make an appearance during this meeting.

“Hermione, we expect you to step up and tell the Gryffindors that this bickering has to stop,” Duncan continued as he turned his eyes on the Gryffindor, his easygoing demeanor kept well in check. “At the rate both houses are going, they’ll have negative house points in a week, and I don’t think anyone wants to see that as a Hogwarts first.” He gazed coolly between the two Prefects.

Hermione sat forward abruptly in her seat and gesticulated wildly in her former boyfriend’s direction as she implored, “He’s the one who’s taken half the points from Gryffindor this week, not the teachers! And it hasn’t even been for fighting! It’s been for vindictive, trivial things.”

Duncan walked around to the other side of his desk and picked up a long sheet of parchment. He glanced down at it before looking back toward the Prefects. “Ella and I have gone over this list of infractions and points taken in the last few days, and we’d have to agree with you on that point.” Draco looked at his fellow Slytherin sharply, but the older boy ignored it. “There has been an unusually large number of points taken from Gryffindor by the sixth-year Slytherin Prefect, and that has to stop as well, Draco,” he reasoned, turning his steady eyes on his housemate. Draco turned away with a haughty huff. “I know what you’re thinking. Yes, I am a Slytherin, but I’m also Head Boy, and I will not have you overstepping your authority as a means to draw out some lovers’ quarrel with a Gryffindor. Slytherin has a good chance of winning the House Cup this year and I won’t have any rumours that it was all a technicality, since our sixth year Prefect got power hungry and deducted excessive points from our leading competitor.”

Draco stood from his seat in defiance. “I stand behind every point I took from those sniveling brats. Every point they lost, they deserved to lose.”

Ella rolled her eyes in exasperation and walked to Duncan to look at the list. “Five points from Lavender Brown for writing with chartreuse ink; five points from Dennis Creevy for looking you in the eye in the lunchroom; ten points from Dean Thomas for snoring too loudly in the library; ten points from Neville Longbottom for dropping his parchment in the hallway.” She finished reading and looked over her square-rimmed glasses at Draco who didn’t bother to hide his smirk. “Draco, taking points for this stuff is ludicrous and you know it.”

He shrugged casually and clearly repeated. “I stand by my decisions.”

“Well, unfortunately, we can’t,” Duncan stated with a heavy sigh. Draco shot him another quick look of surprise. “I’m sorry, Draco, but if Ella and I don’t step in now then McGonagall will, and that’s an aggravation none of us wants.”

“But if you give back all of the points, it undermines my authority as a Prefect,” Draco argued.

“Then keep that in mind the next time you decide to abuse your privileges,” Ella explained in a tone which left little room for negotiation. Her brown eyes softened a bit. “We’re not giving back all of the points in any case. Only about half. But take this as a warning that we do keep an eye on our Prefects and that your power is not absolute. You may be a Malfoy, but within these walls you’re only a sixth year student. Is that understood?” Draco nodded curtly and crossed his arms in front of his chest. She turned her eyes to the other girl. “Hermione, this goes for you too, not just Draco. Duncan and I don’t want to see a spike in the number of points taken from Slytherin by you either.” Hermione nodded that she understood. “And we expect both of you to discourage your housemates from pummeling each other at every opportunity.”

“Are we done now?” Draco drawled in a bored voice. “I’ve got to get back to Charms class.”

Duncan and Ella looked at each other and reached some sort of silent agreement. The Head Boy motioned to Hermione. “You can go back to class, Hermione, but I’d like a few words with you, Draco.”

With a short goodbye to Duncan and Ella, Hermione turned, ignoring Draco, and exited quickly, her shoulder briskly hitting his arm as she passed on her way to the door. Draco closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. The vanilla and peaches scent of her shampoo stung worse than her shoulder.

While Ella settled into the soft, leather chair behind the desk to sift through some documents, Duncan nodded his head toward the window and gestured for Draco to follow. The younger Slytherin leaned heavily against the wall; he understood Duncan was acting in the best interests for his house and as a Head Boy should … but still. Taking points from Gryffindors had been Draco’s only means of amusement in otherwise dark days, and Duncan had just quelled it. Draco tossed his head back a bit to sweep his longish blond bangs from his eyes; he’d been too preoccupied in recent weeks to get his hair trimmed. With a proud, uninterested air, he asked, “What now, Duncan? I already told you I’ll be a good boy from now on.” He arched his eyebrow a bit and smirked. “What’s the matter? Don’t you trust me?”

For the first time since Draco had entered the room, Duncan grinned, flashing his dimples briefly. His eyes glanced quickly to the Head Girl to make sure she wasn’t listening. “I wanted to make sure you understood why Ella and I called you both in here.”

“Perfectly. You don’t want any of the ickle students caught in the crossfire. I get it.”

“No, you don’t,” Duncan answered, his greyish-green eyes peered meaningfully into Draco’s silvery ones. His serious tone caught Draco’s attention. “I’m sure your father has probably told you by now that the Board makes its decision about the next term’s Head Girl and Boy shortly after the last round of interviews.” Yes, he’s already given me the ‘good’ news, Draco thought dolefully. “But that’s not entirely true. Voters can change their mind at any time before Dumbledore reads the names at the Leaving Ball. So don’t fuck this up, Draco. If any of the voters hear of your petty bickering with the Gryffindors, they might decide you aren’t the best choice after all,” he warned. “It would be quite a coup for Slytherin to have won this honour three years in a row. None of the students, including myself, know the results until the Ball, but I do know that you and Potter are the top contenders for Head Boy. I can also tell you that many people have been quite surprised by how strong of a contender you’ve been for this. Naming Potter as Head Boy is no longer a given like most assume, thanks to you.” He smiled again, the friendliness and affability of the action betrayed only by the cunning glint shielded beneath his thick eyelashes. “Now is the time to think smart, not like a spiteful, childish prick.”

~~~~~

Hermione exited the meeting in a huff. It was bad enough that she’d got the note directing her to That Place during Defense Against the Dark Arts, but when Ella had told her briefly what it was about, Hermione had wanted the castle floor to open up and swallow her. How could she endure seeing him in that room again? It had been less than a week since she’d walked in on him with his tart, and she’d managed to avoid that corridor successfully … until now.

She’d hardly left Gryffindor Tower that entire weekend, choosing instead to go for meals with Harry and Ron down at Hagrid’s, even though she could barely tolerate the smell of food let alone taste it. But her friends had insisted. “You can’t stay cooped up in here, Hermione,” they’d told her, not leaving her side for a second other than when it was time to sleep. Although she hadn’t gotten much of that either. The entire experience had left her with a dull numbness, leaving her both mentally and physically exhausted. The deafening silence of her room drove her to seek comfort in the crackling, warm fire of the common room where she would stare blankly out the window, lost in her thoughts, wondering what she’d done wrong.

There had been tears, of course; some were of the sorrowful, heaving variety, but there were also the angry, disgusted kind too. Yet most of the time she had felt like a piece of rope had been wrapped around her heart, squeezing it so tight that it had become completely numb.

She’d dreaded telling Ron what had happened, not sure if she could bear the “I told you so” she duly deserved. But it never came. As he’d sat on her bed on Saturday morning, clearly confused by Harry’s cryptic behaviour that Hermione had needed to talk to him, she’d told Ron what had happened just a few hours before. She’d thought the second retelling of events might have been easier than when she’d first told Harry, but it was equally as painful and left her feeling just as empty. Ron had hugged her tightly to him, telling her everything would be all right. Once he and Harry both knew, they seemed to feed on each other’s animosity for the Slytherin foe they’d loathed for years. It was only with much pleading and heartfelt appeals that they didn’t break down the door into the Slytherin common room and tear Draco to pieces. But she was selfish; she wanted her best friends with her, not being handed detentions.

In the sanctuary of Gryffindor Tower, it was easy to ignore everything in the rest of the castle, easy to forget that the entire world hadn’t stopped because her heart was in tatters. A few times, she’d wanted to go to Draco to hash it out with him, but her friends convinced her it wasn’t a good idea. After misjudging Phillippe and then Draco so erroneously, her confidence in making judgments had faltered. She let her friends do the thinking for her those first few days because she knew they had her best interests at heart.

As she sat in the office, awaiting Draco’s arrival, Hermione had vowed to ignore his presence as much as possible; the sooner it was over, the better. She had silently sworn she wouldn’t look at him or speak to him. However, she’d failed to factor in how delicious he smelled; the moment he’d closed the door, trapping them in one room, his expensive cologne had taunted her senses, the fresh, cool scent teasing her with memories of him: their first kiss in a dark Paris alley, their last night at Beauxbatons, huddling close to him as they walked to Hogsmeade, their nights in the library study room. Her heart was pulling in two different directions – half wanted to run as far away and never look back … but the other traitorous half could only remember how much she’d loved him. If she could have kicked herself, she would have.

With surprising fortitude, Hermione had held true to her vow of silence, but when Draco’d made that crack about Hagrid, she could hold her tongue no longer; all her fury and vexation at her former boyfriend had spilled forth like a tipped cauldron. Looking into his inscrutable eyes for the first time in days had spurred her desire for the truth about what had gone so horribly wrong.

So she waited.

Lingering outside the office door, she paced nervously, anxious for him to emerge, but dreading it just the same. She knew she wasn’t ready for this conversation and that if Harry or Ron were here they’d steer her far away.

But she was alone.

That realization solidified her resolve. Hermione had wonderful friends to help her deal with his betrayal, but she’d never felt more alone in her life. And it was because of Draco.

Before she had time to prepare a speech, Draco was standing in the open doorway. His footsteps faltered when he saw her obviously waiting for him, and he cast his eyes everywhere about the hallway, refusing to look directly at her. He hesitated for a few seconds before giving her a curt nod then, without a word, he headed toward the stairwell with long, graceful strides.

Before he could escape, Hermione called to his retreating form, “Just answer one question, Draco … why?”

Even with his back turned toward her, she could tell one side of his mouth was curved up in a smirk. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Hermione planted her feet firmly on the ground and crossed her arms at her chest. “I want to hear you say it.”

He sighed heavily before shaking his head casually. His reply was laced with slight annoyance. “Because Liss offered me what you never did.”

“A lousy shag! That’s what this was all about?”

He turned abruptly, his cloaks swirling around him like a cloud of black smoke. “No, although that was definitely a perk, and it certainly wasn’t lousy.” His lip curled even more as his steely eyes mocked her. “Most men don’t enjoy playing second fiddle. Liss understands that.”

She shifted her weight onto her left foot. “And you think you had to play that with me?”

“No. With you it was more like fifth or sixth fiddle.” His voice cracked in agitation on the last few words.

Hermione’s mouth hung open in disbelief. “How can you say that? Were we in the same relationship? Because I spent the majority of my free time with you,” she reasoned as she flicked her hand brusquely at him.

He pointed a stern finger back. “Correct. Your free time, which you hardly had any of because you were too busy helping intellectually challenged Gryffindors or engaging in some nauseating, friendly bonding activity with Potter and Weasley. You hardly made any time for me … for us. What did you expect me to do? Wait around lapping at your heels until you could fit me into your busy schedule?” His rising anger flushed his cheeks with crimson and his brows furrowed in a sharp V as his words spewed forth like scalding drops of lava from an erupting volcano.

“That’s a bald-faced lie! I spent most nights studying with you or with those boors you call teammates. Besides, if you didn’t like what was happening, why didn’t you say anything?”

“When would I have had the chance?” he retorted in a mirthless laugh. “Even when you were with me, one of your lackeys always tagged along or interrupted us, hoping to pick the great Hermione Granger’s brain for a sodding homework answer. I could probably count on one hand the number of times we were alone and uninterrupted for more than ten minutes.” He closed the distance between them as he sneered, “That’s hardly what I’d call a fulfilling relationship.”

She didn’t retreat from his verbal assault. Now that he stood in front of her, his anger enveloped her as well. “And I’ll bet that trollop was more than happy to be there for you in your time of need.”

“You’re right. Liss responded quite enthusiastically to my needs.” He cocked his head to one side.

“Were you ever planning on telling me?” His eyes glinted mischievously. A part of her brain screamed to take a step back from him, but her feet refused to cooperate with her head.

With a slight curl of his lip, he reached across the short distance separating them and tucked a few stray hairs behind her ear, a simple gesture she welcomed only days ago. Now her heart pulsed with panic and shame, her skin tingling with electricity as his smooth fingertips brushed across her ear. “That depended,” he said silkily.

“On what?” she asked thickly, her eyes drawn to his like magnets as he cupped her chin in his hand and started to pull her face toward him. He’d inflicted such pain on her, he’d humiliated her beyond reproach, he’d lied to her in the cruelest way possible … and yet she couldn’t resist his touch. The yearning to be near him was still with her.

As he leaned closer, he breathed hotly against her lips, “On how far you were willing to let me get.” His lips met hers in a crushing kiss before she could pull away. While he sucked hard on her bottom lip, his strong hand reached behind her neck and held her head firmly against his. His kiss was not gentle, it was demanding. It was nothing like the soft, sensuous caresses she’d enjoyed with him. This was more of a cruel message than a display of affection.

And she understood him perfectly.

Finally, she shoved hard against his chest, pushing herself safely out of arm’s reach. She wiped her wet lips with the back of her hand as she gasped for air. He stared smugly down at her, mocking her for allowing the kiss to last as long as it had. Her mind reeled, searching for a proper rebuff, but, of course, he managed to organize his thoughts first. “I should have expected that. You always managed to stop before we got to the really good part.”

“You bastard,” she muttered through gritted teeth.

“Look, Hermione, I’m sorry, but you wanted the truth. Don’t blame me if you’re too weak to handle it.”

His words stung like a hard slap across her face. She took several steps back, breaking free from the blistering circle of ire. “Why are you being so cruel, Draco?” she finally asked in a raspy voice. His hurtful, cold words and heartless actions broached a question she wasn’t sure she wanted answered, but her sanity required it. For the first time since they’d been arguing, tears were prickling behind her eyes, but she refused to let him see even one fall. She sniffed calmly and looked upward, fixing her gaze on the lamp overhead, praying if she kept her chin up high that the tears wouldn’t have a chance to escape. After a few deep breaths, she sniffed again before lowering her head and returning her eyes to his. “Was everything you said and did since September all a big lie?”

Draco did not answer right away, but he did not move or even blink. He just stared at her. Hard. “Don’t ask questions you know you don’t want the answers to, Hermione.”

But Hermione would not be intimidated. “Answer the question, you prat. You owe me that much.”

She stared into his unblinking eyes, wondering if she could see any remnants of the young wizard who’d scorched her soul with his tender words and embraces. But a stranger looked back.

An awkward silence stretched between them for a few agonizing moments as she awaited his answer. “No. Not all of it.”

Strangely, his admission didn’t make her feel any better as she’d expected it to. “Then what went wrong?”

“You said one question, Hermione, and I answered more than that,” he stated flatly. “Now I’m heading back to class.”

“Well, your answers weren’t good enough. I want more,” she replied, her voice trembling as she swallowed back her tears.

He smiled condescendingly at her. “That, pet, was our biggest problem.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll be the first to admit there was something happening between us before the Yule Ball, but it was never anything definite or exclusive. But barely three months into our ‘official’ relationship, you declared your love for me.” Hermione gripped her fists so tightly, she could feel the nails digging into her palms, but she wasn’t conscious of any pain other than having her feelings brushed aside like a casual annoyance. “You can deny it all you want, but in your pure, little Gryffindor heart, you wanted me to say it back.” Though she hated to admit it to herself, a part of her deep down, knew he was right. And though his candidness pained her, she needed it.

She should have known everything was too good to be true.

They stood in silence for several moments, each contemplating their thoughts, reflecting on the past tumultuous months. She could feel the bridge of honesty between them hadn’t collapsed yet. A nagging thought occurred to her, and not for the first time. “Does this have anything to do with your father? Because when he came to visit, I thought …”

“Liss and I shagged before that, Hermione. Several weeks before that, in fact,” he said flatly.

“Oh.” No wonder he’d been so understanding all those times she’d halted their amorous activities; Lissanne had been waiting in the wings.

He took a deep breath. “When we started this, I never intended for this to happen. When we were in France, I could feel myself being pulled toward you and when we got back to Hogwarts, the feelings intensified … exponentially. You became my obsession. I had to have you. And then I got you.”

“So once you got me you didn’t want me anymore?”

“I’ve never been the type of wizard who’s content with what he has. I always want more.”

‘What about Pansy?”

He looked at her, perplexed. “Pansy? What does she have to do with anything?”

“You dated her for over a year.”

“Yes, well, she wasn’t as much of a stickler for monogamy as you turned out to be.” He tried to shield his smirk, but it was already forming on his lips. Then his gaze turned serious. “When I kissed you at the Yule Ball, I never intended for things to end up like this, but everything was different than I expected … you were different.”

“How was I different? Did you think I’d have sex with you after one kiss in front of the whole school?”

“No, of course not, but I expected you to be a bit … I don’t know … different from the girl I knew at Beauxbatons. We studied together there and helped each other get through it, so I saw first hand how important your schoolwork is to you. Hell, I respect you for it, even after everything that’s happened. But I thought having you as my girlfriend would have added another level to our relationship.” With a meaningful glance, he explained, “A more physical level. But that didn’t happen.” He took a deep, uncomfortable breath, looking for the first time all day that he really regretted the pain he was causing her. “It was boring, Hermione. You were boring.”

“Well,” she announced, standing up straight, inhaling deeply and brushing the back of her hand across her cheeks to make sure no errant tears had escaped. They were still dry, but she knew they wouldn’t be for long. “I asked for answers and now I guess I have them. I should head back to Defense Against the Dark Arts class before the bell rings.” She spun swiftly to make her way down the corridor, praying she could reach the girls’ lavatory around the corner before the flood enveloped her.

She had her answers. When it came right down to it, the problems were with her. He’d liked her in the beginning; he hadn’t lied about that at least. In short, the fears she’d had that she wouldn’t be an interesting enough girlfriend for someone like Draco Malfoy had turned out to be true.

~~~~~

Draco’s shoulders sagged in a hollow victory. He took several deep breaths as he wondered if the lump, which had formed in his throat as he broke Hermione’s heart for a second time in one week, would mercifully get stuck and suffocate him.

As Draco swallowed to fight back an unpleasant taste creeping from his stomach, he heard a gentle voice behind him. “Do you have business in the Prefects’ office as well, Mr. Malfoy? I am supposed to have a meeting with Mr. Fitzwilliam and Miss Bennett. Something about Peeves and the lavatories again, I’m sure.”

He hadn’t even heard the Headmaster’s approaching footsteps, so he took no notice of the light humour. Taking a few seconds to compose himself before facing Professor Dumbledore, Draco reached up and straightened his green and silver tie then cleared his throat. When he finally turned around, the silver-haired wizard was eyeing him curiously over a pair of half-moon spectacles. It was only then he realized he’d already forgotten the headmaster’s question. Dumbledore smiled benignly and repeated his query, giving Draco a chance to respond. “Actually, I had a meeting with Duncan and Ella. I’m on my way back to class.”

Draco could feel the layers of his labyrinthine lies being stripped away under Dumbledore’s unblinking, cerulean gaze. This was the Headmaster. Wasn’t he here to help all of his students, not just the prats with scars on their foreheads? It would be so easy to lay this entire mess at Dumbledore’s feet, to have one of the greatest minds in wizarding history find the answer for him.

It was a weak, childish fantasy; Draco knew this. The risks were too great with too much to lose. But as Dumbledore’s twinkling, almost knowing eyes bored into his, Draco sensed that maybe, possibly, the old man could be trusted. The words were poised on his lips, ready to escape, when the office door opened.

Ella looked between the hall’s two occupants in surprise. “Professor Dumbledore, sir, I thought I heard your voice. Duncan and I have our report ready for you, if you’d like to step inside.” She opened the door wider to allow the Headmaster room to enter. When no one made a move, Ella turned to Draco. “I thought you were headed back to class, Draco. The bell will ring soon and you’ll need to grab your books.”

Before he could make a clean escape, Dumbledore laid a firm yet gentle hand on his shoulder. “Good day, Mr. Malfoy. Perhaps we can chat again, when you have a bit more time.”

The realization of what he’d almost divulged stung Draco unbearably. He gathered his wits and backed respectfully away from the old man. “Good day, sir.” Then he turned to the safe haven of the stairs before any more foolish ideas could take form.

~~~~~

It was like watching Hagrid try and comb his hair – utterly futile and terribly painful. Hermione Granger was one of Ron’s closest, dearest friends, and there were no limits to her brilliance. However, she did have two glaring imperfections. 1) The inability to fly on a broomstick with ease. 2) The art of subtle flirting. It was this latter character flaw which had Ron shuddering in agony. He supposed seeing her ex could make even the most rational girl like Hermione behave oddly, and considering the little show Draco and that Slytherin bitch were putting on for everyone in the pub, Ron couldn’t fault her for trying to retaliate. Yes, the room was almost full, but there were plenty of seats for Lissanne to plant her skanky arse. Did she really need to park herself right on Malfoy’s lap so that he could grope her under the table? People were trying to eat, and the last time he checked the menu, the Bint-Ferret Combo Platter wasn’t on it.

Hermione’s girlish giggle brought Ron’s attention back to his fellow Gryffindors. Hermione never giggled. And for good reason; she sounded like Trelawney on an overdose of Pepper Up potion. He watched as her eyes continued to stray toward the other side of the room where Malfoy and Lissanne’s game of tonsil hockey had gone into overtime. Hermione’s face flushed with anger and jealousy before she turned her big, toothy smile on Neville. It wasn’t the first time that Ron had pitied Neville, one of the nicest, most considerate blokes in his acquaintance. Except that Neville had never quite caught on with the girls in their house; he must have heard the “You’re such a good friend” line more than any other Gryffindor in the history of Hogwarts. Surveying the scene before him, Ron felt Neville’s cherry red face and flustered attempts at conversation were wholly justified. After all, if Hermione had memorized 101 Ways to Flirt Like a Pro and attempted to try them all out on him in a ten minute period, Ron might feel overwhelmed as well, and he wasn’t a stranger to feminine wiles. Sure, he wasn’t as popular with the ladies as Seamus or his older brother Bill, but Ron had had his fair share of admirers over the years. Yet all of his experience could not have prepared him for such an onslaught of Hermione’s attention. If he added up all the times Hermione had batted her eyelashes, tossed her hair over her shoulder, rested her hand playfully on a wizard’s arm, or asked about a bloke’s favourite Quidditch team in the six years of their friendship, the total would still be less than the amount this afternoon. Neville wasn’t even as excited about his end of term Herbology project as Hermione seemed.

But it wasn’t Neville’s feelings that were Ron’s primary concern. Neville was never the object of such enthusiastic attentions from a girl; his brain would probably suffer from sensory overload and the poor chap would barely recall a third of the compliments she paid to him.

Ron was concerned about Harry.

Something had happened between Harry and Hermione, but neither one was talking. After the experiences the three of them had shared together, Ron could read his friends’ faces more easily than his much loved, dog-eared copy of Quidditch Through the Ages.

However, Hermione’s rift with Draco had required immediate attention to certain situations rather than unearthing an unconfirmed, shared secret between two dear friends. Things like feeling the bones in Malfoy’s perfect nose crush beneath his knuckles, gleefully watch the pompous Slytherin spit several cracked teeth on the ground, or kick the bastard so hard in the stomach he crumpled to his knees only to be dragged to his feet and then kicked some more were on Ron’s list of priorities. Of course, Hermione had pleaded with Harry and Ron to not do anything which would get them into dire trouble … for her sake. And neither of them could bear to let her down after what that arse had done to her, so the beatings were kept to a respectable level.

And now a week had passed. Hermione was still clearly shaken and unsettled at having her heart shredded by her first real boyfriend. She’d faced the questioning stares of the Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, and Ravenclaws with composure and grace, and the taunting jeers and cruel jabs of the Slytherins with aloof poise. But most of the time, she’d seemed only vaguely aware that the world existed and that she was living in it. She’d let Harry or Ron decide what they were going to do or where they were going to go. She didn’t even chastise Ron when he’d handed in a History of Magic essay that was four inches too short.

And he hated that. Hated that his nagging, bossy, level-headed friend had lost her self-assurance over a Malfoy for even a short while. He knew most of her energy was expended on everyday things, like getting out of bed every morning and making sure she at least ate some toast with her tea for sustenance; however, occasionally he would see flickers of his Hermione.

After her tete a tete with that miserable sod, the Ravenclaw Head Girl and that smarmy git Fitzwilliam, Hermione had informed Ron and Harry that their daily doses of Ferret Funning were at an abrupt end. She said she’d gleaned a certain amount of closure from the meeting and insisted she wanted to put the entire experience behind her. Ron believed her; he had seen her struggling every day to make sense out of it.

Witnessing the overwhelming evidence that Malfoy had moved on – even before his relationship with Hermione had ended -- created an awkward situation. Though Ron admired Hermione’s resolve not to be chased out of the Three Broomsticks by the crude display, he found fault for the execution of her I’ll Deal With It In My Own Way plan. After all, she couldn’t really make Malfoy jealous if he was preoccupied with Lissanne’s knickers. The unscrupulous wanker hadn’t even glanced in the Gryffindors’ direction since he’d entered the pub. A fact Hermione seemed determined to remedy.

And that had Harry as tense as if he’d been asked to play Keeper for England tomorrow.

The conflicted looks Ron’s young, raven-haired friend kept casting at the single-minded witch and his long time rival pushed Ron into action. Before Hermione had set out to test her sorely untrained flirtation skills on a hapless Neville, Ron had witnessed an odd look of guilt or embarrassment pass between Harry and Hermione, almost as if her initial intentions had been toward Harry but then had been quickly recalculated.

And now Harry was looking as uncomfortable as Ron felt.

Finally, deciding this unfortunate charade had inflicted enough damage on helpless bystanders, Ron rose abruptly from his chair. “Hermione, will you come with me to fetch some more butterbeers for us?” Three sets of eyes swung to his; Harry’s emerald green pair thanked him silently.

Hermione glanced quizzically at the boys, but as neither Harry nor Neville offered any objections, she nodded and rose to walk around the small table. “Okay, Ron, I’ll help, but I hope it doesn’t take too long. Neville was just explaining his plans to transplant the fluxweed.”

Ron rolled his eyes with a barely audible sigh, but she didn’t notice. Her eyes flickered subconsciously toward the Slytherin side of the pub. Ron didn’t comment. Instead he tugged on her arm, drawing her attention to him once more. “Don’t worry, I won’t keep you long. I know how excited you get about your leafy greens and herbs. My legs were getting cramped under that short table.” He leaned in and whispered close to her ear as they proceeded to the back. “Besides, I wanted to talk to you about something.”

When they made their way to the bar, she turned to face him, looking him straight in the eye for the first time since they’d sat down in the pub. “Ron, what is it? You’ve got this dire look on your face like the Chudley Cannons just traded Dorian Pitt for a new Keeper.”

Ron shook his head in agitation and rubbed his hand over his face. “First of all, Dorian Pitt retired from the Wasps – not the Cannons -- two seasons ago where he spent his entire career, and second, he was a Chaser, not a Keeper.” He stared squarely into her face, knowing she didn’t really know what she was doing at the table or why. But that didn’t mean he didn’t feel like throttling her. Hard. “Third, since Neville was just telling Harry about how his uncle had brought him to Pitt’s final game two years ago for his fourteenth birthday, you’d know all of that if even one bit of the rapturous attention you were lavishing on Neville were genuine and not a sore attempt to make Malfoy jealous.” Hermione made no move to reply as Ron paused to suck in a deep breath; she was clearly stunned by his keen observation. He smiled wryly. “I do pay attention to things other than girls and Quidditch, you know.”

She shook her head. “It’s not that. I just can’t believe you used the word ‘rapturous’ in a sentence. And correctly too.”

Ron pushed lightly on her shoulder and she grinned good-naturedly at him. “Your attempts to distract me won’t work, Hermione. I know what you were trying to do … even if Malfoy was too busy to notice.”

Her mouth opened and closed a few times. With a hollow laugh, she finally managed, “Pray tell, what am I trying to do? Is it impolitic to have a simple conversation with a few good friends?”

He let out a loud guffaw. “If that was a simple conversation, than I’m Snape’s favourite student of all time. I don’t what you hope to accomplish by flirting shamelessly with a good friend like Neville, but it’s a bad idea. A very bad one.” She opened her mouth in feeble denial, but Ron held up his hand to halt her protestations. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m getting windburn from how many times you’ve batted your eyelashes at the poor bloke, and your neck is going to be mighty sore after flipping your hair so much. You’ve got many talents, Hermione – more than the average witch – but please stop flirting with your housemates. For all of our sakes.”

She cast her eyes downward and slumped onto the barstool behind her. “Was I that awful?” she groaned miserably. “I don’t know what possessed me to do that. Honestly.”

His gaze followed hers, which had subconsciously flickered over to the Slytherin side of the room. He looked back to her distraught form on the barstool, where sadness veiled her eyes like heavy curtains and her shoulders hunched in defeat. He sighed heavily, drawing her attention, “I think it’s a safe bet you were trying to make someone who doesn’t even deserve to touch the hem of your robes jealous … or at least to get him to notice you. But this isn’t the way to get over him, Hermione. For one thing, it’s bloody ineffective and foolish, and for another, you’re dragging innocents in where they don’t belong.” He nodded toward their table, where Harry was looking sulkier than normal and Neville was straightening his tie and running his hands nervously through his hair. “I don’t want any more of my friends getting hurt over Malfoy.”

She laughed softly with disbelief. “I hardly think either Neville or Harry is about to swoon at my feet since, as you so delicately pointed out, my flirting skills leave much to be desired.”

Ron didn’t want to leave the door open even a crack for that possibility. He leaned near to her, so only she could hear him. Licking his lips in a nervous habit, he confessed, “I’m going to tell you something that could get me in trouble, but you need to know. First, you have to swear you’ll never tell another soul that I was the one who told you.”

Her eyes rounded in shock and concern. “I swear, Ron.”

The air between them hung heavy with anticipation, her unblinking eyes locked on his like she was afraid she’d miss out on something important if her eyes closed for a fraction of a second. He took a deep breath, and smiled conspiratorially. “All sixteen year old wizards think every girl wants them.”

Hermione’s brow relaxed and her concerned frown eased into a relieved grin. “And here I thought you were going to impart me with some words of wisdom. Honestly, Ron, every girl with half a brain already knows that.” She pushed his shoulder jokingly as she rolled her eyes in jest.

He bristled a bit at her cavalier reaction, but was pleased to see her smiling, since it was a rare occurrence this past week. He was also happy to have her attention on anything other than Malfoy. “While it is true that a small percentage of blokes are indubitably irresistible to women,” he paused with a cocky grin, “the majority of young wizards are sadly deluded.” She covered her mouth with her hand as she chuckled heartily, but he pulled her hand away and held it in his. He wanted her to realize he was no longer joking. “The smallest amount of encouragement can fuel intense flames, Hermione. What you consider harmless might be interpreted in a vastly different way, and you may end up unintentionally hurting people who don’t deserve it.”

She looked at him dubiously. “You can’t honestly think they took any of that seriously.” She looked at the two wizards in question with uncertainty. “Things have never been like that with Neville … or Harry.”

“I doubt it, but when it comes to girls, the normal rules don’t apply to sixteen year old guys. And there’s nothing more enticing than a damsel in distress who needs rescuing … especially from a dragon.”

She shook her head at him. “But I don’t need to be rescued.”

“I know that, and you know that, but I know quite a few blokes who would be more than happy to help you get past Malfoy … and all it would take was a few words of encouragement.”

He could see the concern darkening her eyes again. “The point I’m trying to make is I think you’re going about this all wrong. Instead of trying to make Malfoy jealous, which let’s face it …” he waved his hand in disgust at the Slytherin “ …isn’t working one damn bit since he hasn’t even noticed you’re in Hogsmeade, let alone the same room.” He saw her wince at his words, but knew it was the right thing to do. “Why don’t you do something which will really piss him off?”

“Like what?”

“Pick up where you left off before he’d twisted you into knots.”

“Don’t you think that’s what I’ve been trying to do?” she hissed. “It’s only been a week. I still feel like everything’s spinning beyond my control. When I think I’ve got a handle on it, something happens to knock it all out of whack once more.”

“I know it’s been hard, but if you really want to get back at him, the best thing to do is to at least make him think you’ve already moved on.” As he spoke, the pace of his words quickened as the words flowed from his lips, a poorly formed idea taking a shape all on its own. “Right now, it’s obvious to anyone who looks at you that you’re mooning over him –“

“I’m not mooning,” she interrupted harshly.

“Yes, you are, but he doesn’t have to know that. Didn’t you tell me that one of the biggest things that pillock resented was how close you were to your friends? If you settled back into those things -- and let’s face it, we’re more interesting than that prat any day of the week -- he’d be totally hacked off that your life reverted back to normal so seamlessly, like he’d barely been a blip on your life radar.”

Ron could see the wheels turning as she mulled over his idea, rapidly analyzing his proposal. “That really would be a tasty form of revenge,” she smirked. “And in time, hopefully it won’t be all an act.”

He gripped her hand tightly in his. “In no time at all, you’ll be wondering what on earth you ever saw in a ponce like Malfoy. And knowing you, you’ll be so busy revising for finals, you won’t even remember …”

Hermione leaped to her feet, her face stark white. “Oh no!” she cried. “Finals are only three months away, aren’t they? And I’ve slacked off this whole week all because of him and that trollop.” The allure of studying had been too strong for her to resist, and he admired the fiery glow of determination that flushed her cheeks when she set her mind firmly to something. “I’ve got schedules to make up, notes to revise, chapters to read …” she muttered making a mental list in her head, as her eyes got a familiar focused look. He smiled knowingly – she must be thinking about her colour-coded charts. Finally her happily dazed eyes fixated on him. “Thank you, Ron. This chat was just what I needed.”

He breathed a sigh of relief. “Good. So can we go back to the table without any more hair flipping or girlish laughter?” Just remembering it caused him to visibly shudder.

“Are you kidding? I’ve got to head back to Hogwarts. Contrary to what you and Harry believe, a person can’t study by simply holding the book really close to one’s head.”

… To be continued