Chapter 28

The Great Hall was bustling with spirit. Blaise Zabini was back, and by the state of his gaunt face and slimmed figure, there was a story behind it—a big one. It was obvious his disappearance wasn't rebellion or due to family matters, but due to so much more. Rumors of fantastical rescues by forty, fifty, one hundred aurors did away with any trace of truth. The only thing Hogwarts seemed to get right about Blaise Zabini's legendary disappearance was the location.

"Scotland never seemed like a dangerous place before," said Neville pensively, pouring pumpkin juice into his cup. "Just so strange how changed he is, isn't it?"

"Couldn't've said it better myself," said Dean, taking the pumpkin juice from Neville to pour some into his own cup. He looked over his shoulder at the Slytherin table. "I mean, he must have lost at least twenty pounds!"

"And his hair's so long," commented Ginny. "Wherever he was, it doesn't look like he was there willingly."

"Don't jump on that rumor bandwagon," warned Dean.

"I'm not jumping on anything," said Ginny defensively. "You take a good look at him and tell me if he was on vacation."

"The lad does look like he just got out of Azkaban," said Seamus, stealing a glance over his shoulder. "And no one willingly goes to that place."

"What do you think will happen to his schooling?" asked Neville, his food and pumpkin juice, untouched. "He must be impossibly behind. Do you think he'll graduate with the rest of us?"

"He might," said Seamus dismissively. "I don't think Dumbledore will make him repeat a year, especially if he's a victim of something awful."

"Bandwagon," reminded Dean.

"I said if," replied Seamus.

"Malfoy's missing," observed Ginny lightly.

"What?"

"Malfoy," she repeated. "He's not with Zabini. He's not here at all."

The boys scanned the length of the Slytherin dining table. There wasn't a platinum blond head to be found.

"Was he here at all, today?" asked Neville.

"I don't remember seeing him," said Dean. "But I wasn't exactly looking."

"What are we looking for?" asked Ron, taking a seat next to Ginny.

"We're trying to figure out where Malf—Harry!"

Harry gave Ginny a small smile before sitting down next to Ron and turning to look at Blaise Zabini. "So he's really back."

"Yeah," said Ginny.

"Just in time to make you look better by comparison," smirked Seamus. "Have you finally decided you need to eat like the rest of us?"

"I just got him to leave the room," said Ron. "Let's not push it."

Harry mumbled "very funny" before starting to fill up his plate. His appetite had yet to return, but his self-hatred had decreased a notch. "What do we know about Zabini?" he asked.

"You may not want to ask Ginny or Seamus that question—they'll give you conspiracy theories," said Dean.

"Shut up," said Ginny. "We don't know much more than we did before" she told Harry. "Just that he's back."

"And that he's eating dinner without Malfoy," said Dean. "That has to be a first in seven years, right? I wouldn't be surprised if Malfoy was behind the entire thing."

"Now who's speculating," said Seamus.

"I said I wouldn't be surprised, not that he actually did anything."

"No chance," said Ginny. "I was the one who told him Zabini was back, and he went dashing for Dumbledore's office like his life depended on it."

"Maybe it did," Dean joked ominously. "Maybe he's in Dumbledore's office right now about to be suspended."

"He's in the Head's Common Room," interjected Harry. "Ron and I were just there."

"Oh?"

"Yeah," said Ron dryly. "Harry wanted to see if Dumbledore had told Malfoy anything about Hermione while he was there."

"Why would he do that?" asked Ginny flatly.

"Why wouldn't he? It's not like he's bothered telling us how she's getting on," shot Harry. "Dumbledore stopped making any sense some three years ago; there's no reason I should go about as if he's a rational being."

"Fighting irrationality with irrationality," said Seamus. "Sounds promising."

"Did he know anything?" asked Neville.

Ron gave Neville a look that answered his question before Harry vocalized it. "No," said Harry, taking his plate and loading it with some potatoes. "Turns out he never made it to Dumbledore's office."

"Really?" asked Ginny. "Then Dumbledore didn't really talk to Zabini all that much, did he? How'd Malfoy look?"

"Why do you care?" asked Ron, mouth full.

"Just curious."

Ron shrugged. "Miserable as usual."

"Hermione's never going to talk to me again," blurted Harry. The group exchanged a mixed look of discomfort and worry before each chimed in to make him feel better. "No, no that's not true," and "Of course she will" were the two most popular responses, but a shared pause revealed the unrealistic nature of their comforts, and urged them to provide a more realistic compromise.

"She's going to need time, mate," said Seamus.

"But she'll come around," said Neville. "It's Hermione."

"It's you," said Ginny. "She's going to miss you eventually."

"How long till Eventually?"

Ginny offered Harry a small, insecure smile. "A while?"

"Years," said Harry. "I mean, it's my fault she's blind forever."

"You don't know that, yet," said Ron sternly.

"Yeah, Harry, don't say things like that," said Dean. "It's bad luck."

"Well she left blind and she hasn't been back in a week—what am I supposed to think?"

"Hope that there's another reason for it, mate," said Seamus. "I know you're not used to it and you don't like it, but all you can do right now is hope."

Draco's stomach was protesting loudly his latest decision to skip dinner. He'd managed to eat a large breakfast earlier in the day, before Blaise had made it to the Great Hall, and it had sustained him through lunch. But he'd fallen asleep over Important Modern Magical Discoveries sometime around four in the afternoon, and woken up far too late to beat Blaise to the Great Hall and back.

It wasn't like Draco to avoid anyone, but he just couldn't shake away the feeling that Blaise was up to something—something bigger than just trying to get Draco back on a more proper Slytherin track. Something was different about Blaise, and he couldn't figure out what it was. It wasn't just his changed physique or the fact that he didn't tell him where he'd been the past few months; something in Blaise's inherent character had changed.

For the next several hours, Draco tried to continue reading about ocular anatomy. Around eleven, when he could no longer stand his hunger, Draco made his way to the Kitchens and was presented with the bounty of untouched leftovers from dinner. Draco would have normally demanded that the house elves cook up something new—he was not one for hours-old food—but his hunger was too rampant to complain. He helped himself to three servings, and took a large buttermilk cookie on his way out. He was so satisfied he even smiled at a house elf before leaving, though he did not thank her.

Draco was finishing up his cookie when he reached the large portrait of the old wizard, who had fallen asleep in his chair and was drooling on his own shoulder. Draco was about to wake the wizard and inform him on how disgusting he was when he slept when he heard voices coming from the other side of the portrait. He glanced at the clock down the hall, and registered that he'd been away for only a little over an hour.

Draco put the last piece of cookie in his mouth and brushed his hands off before taking out his wand and quietly placing his ear to the portrait. He couldn't distinguish what was being said, but there was one voice he'd recognize anywhere. He only regretted that it seemed others were present, too.

Draco leaned away from the portrait and scowled. He did not want to deal with Harry Potter and The Other Useless Gryffindors so late at night.

"Oy," he drawled at the portrait. The old wizard woke up briefly, immediately wiping the drool from the corner of his mouth. "Password?" he mumbled, barely keeping his eyes open.

"Whistling wombat," said Draco, and the portrait swung forward.

"I think it'll be best if we all just went back to bed and dealt with this tomorrow."

"How in Merlin's name did you fools get in here?" snarled Draco.

Ginny Weasley, who had voiced the last suggestion to go to bed, turned to look at Draco. "Malfoy," she said, in a tone much softer than what Draco was used to. He had barely noted her teary eyes and flushed cheeks before she turned her back to him and cleared her throat. "Malfoy, we're on our way out," she said, in a much sturdier voice.

"That doesn't answer my question," said Draco dryly. He heard the youngest Weasley scoff before Seamus Finnigan shot "she said we're leavin'."

"I'm not going anywhere," said Harry from the couch, and Draco couldn't possibly understand how he hadn't realized Scarface was sporting a bloody nose.

"Harry, it's late," said Parvati solemly.

"I said no."

"There's nothing you can do now!" bursted Ron.

"Calm down—" started Dean.

"—You knew this was how it was going to be, what did you expect?!"

"Stop yelling," snarled Parvati. Ginny mumbled her agreement, cut short by Harry's heated reply to Ron's last question.

Draco's patience was running dangerously thin. He looked at the intruding Gryffindors, all clad in their night wear, and did his best not to conjure a hex.

"What the hell are you all doing here?" he snarled again, tightening the grip on his wand. He glanced back at his desk—the pile of books remained untouched.

"That's it," said an equally frustrated Ron, not to Draco, but to his best friend. "Petrificus Totalus!"

"Ron!" yelled Ginny, as Harry's body slid stiffly from the couch onto the ground.

"What's your problem?" yelled Parvati, followed by a stern "That wasn't necessary, " by Neville.

"If you hadn't done it, I would have in about five more seconds," said Seamus. He and Dean bent over to pick up Harry. "Sorry, mate," said Dean. "It's for your own good."

Ron pushed passed Draco on his angry way out, murmuring angrily about Harry's inability to take a hint.

Dean, Seamus, and now Neville followed him, carefully carrying Harry between them with Parvati fussing closely behind. Ginny stalled near Draco.

He noticed, of course, and fixed her with a harsh glare. His question hadn't been answered in all the fuss, and it had only served to shorten his temper.

"You haven't answered me Weasley," he snarled. "Why were you dirty lot in my common room?"

Ginny looked like she was about to respond, but the sadness that Draco had witnessed earlier seemed to prevent her. The corners of her mouth quivered downward, and she looked away, shaking her head.

"I'm waiting," Draco pressed harshly.

"You first," bit Ginny, glaring at him. "You weren't at dinner, were you?"

"Who punched Potter in the face?" deflected Draco.

"Did you and Zabini have a row?" she pushed. "Have you been avoiding your only friend?"

"No, I haven't," said Draco smoothly. "I'm not fighting with him and I'm not avoiding him. Why were you all here? How did you get in?"

Ginny wasn't listening. "It's not like Slytherin's dynamic duo to miss an opportunity to saunter the halls together or show off their reunion at dinner."

Draco looked at her incredulously. "I fell asleep, Weasley, give it a rest."

"Do you know where he's been since Christmas break?"

"Are you dumb enough to think I'd share that information with you if I had it?"

"So you don't know," assessed Ginny. "Interesting."

Draco gave her a small smirk, just to throw her off. Her briefly furrowed brow let him know it had worked. "Your turn," he reminded, wondering why he was playing nice with a Weasley.

"We had the password," she said tiredly. "How else could we get in, Malfoy?"

"What were you filth doing here?"

"Are you dumb enough to think I'd share that information with you?" mimicked Ginny.

"You'd better."

"Or what, Malfoy?" she asked, and Draco grabbed her painfully by the arm.

"Don't test me," he growled. "I know you lot love to get together and plan heroic deeds that put you all stupidly close to death. By all means, continue doing so—can't say I'd miss any of you. But keep it out of my common room."

Ginny tried pulling her arm out of Draco's grip. "Is that what you think we were doing? Don't know if you've heard, but Voldemort's dead."

Draco's grip softened. "You and I both know that doesn't mean the problems are gone."

Ginny narrowed her eyes in surprise and suspicion. "Doesn't it?"

Draco was about to tell her she wasn't a very good liar in the most offensive way he could muster, and that it was easy to see she knew something more about what was brewing at large. But almost as soon as scorn had settled into his features, it was abruptly abandoned for the worried look a shock of realization engenders. The obvious had finally registered.

"It's about Granger," he breathed; glad he'd had the sense not to call her by her first name.

"Seriously that just occurred to you?" asked Ginny, rubbing the spot on her arm where Draco's grip had been.

"What do you know?" he asked.

"You of all Slytherins—" began Ginny, but Draco cut in with an impatient "Weasley."

"What do you care?" she said grudgingly.

"Why do you care whether or not I eat dinner with Zabini?"

Ginny paused, and seemed to be sizing him up when Draco, in his frustration, resorted to petty threat. "Tonight, Weasley, or I'll write you all up for being out of bed afterhours."

"Dumbledore knows we're up," said Ginny sharply. "You prat," she finished, turning to walk out. Draco was about to take hold of her again when she said, "Let her rest, or I'll hex you into next year."

The words buzzed in his ears, and he couldn't seem to properly grasp their meaning without blatant confirmation.

"She's back?" asked Draco, an odd pit forming in his stomach.

"Ten points for Slytherin," Ginny mocked flatly. When the portrait swung open, she turned to face Draco. "I meant what I said, Malfoy. If you give her any trouble tonight, you'll have me to deal with."

The portrait closed behind Ginny, and all Draco could do was stare after her. It was at that moment, after registering the absolute sense of dread this news brought him, that Draco realized what was different about his best friend. Blaise Zabini was no longer someone Draco Malfoy could trust.

"Is he still petrified?" asked Ginny incredulously after entering the near-empty Gryffindor common room and spotting Harry's stiff body on the couch. "Come on," she said, brandishing her wand to solve the problem.

"Don't," said Dean. "Look at your brother."

Ron was sitting at the far corner of the room, angrily looking out the window and tenderly holding a bloodied handkerchief to his nose. Without turning around, he briefly held out the handkerchief so that Ginny could better understand what Dean meant.

"Harry did that?"

"The second he was unpetrified," said Dean.

Ginny shook her head. "Well I guess it's only fair," she offered. Ron responded crassly by giving her the middle finger.

Ginny went to get a closer look at Harry. "Who healed his nose?"

"Parvati," answered Dean.

"Where is she? Where is everybody?"

"Seamus and Neville went to sleep. Parvati's up there getting Harry's bed ready. What took you so long?"

Ginny hesitated. "I was talking to Malfoy."

"Anything good?"

"Nothing that could help us," said Ginny, lifting Harry's heavy legs to sit under them, incorrectly thinking it would be less work than walking over to a free chair.

"Of course not," said Dean. "It could never be that easy."

"We need to be smart about this one," said Ginny. "We're dealing with Slytherins, here."

"We don't know that for sure," said Ron from the other side of the room.

"We don't?" said Dean. "I'd bet my life's savings that we are. In fact, I'd narrow it down to just one: Malfoy."

"Don't be simplistic," said Ron. He got up from his chair and walked over to the other two. "We can't go into this so narrowly."

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but Ron's right," said Ginny, readjusting herself under Harry. "Malfoy thought we were scheming in the common room—"

"That's daft," commented Ron. "As if we'd scheme where he lives."

"Right, but just in case that was an informed comment—"

"There's no way," said Dean.

"I said just in case," repeated Ginny. "I reminded him Voldemort was dead and he said something about that not being the end of our problems."

"So he knows!" said Dean. Realizing his tone was too loud, he whispered violently, "What more proof do we need?"

"It wasn't a threat," said Ginny. "He didn't say that like a villain twirling his mustache. He said it seriously—like we both knew something that was supposed to be secret, and that it meant trouble. It was—like he was on our side."

"Maybe he was just referencing the Quiddich World Cup?" shrugged Ron.

"Yeah, no way you got all that just because he said it wasn't over," said Dean.

"I still don't think he's involved," said Ron. "Remember former death eaters killed his mother."

"And he didn't even go to her funeral. Probably asked them to do it himself," said Dean, right before Parvati appeared at the foot of the stairs leading to the boy's dormitory.

"Bed's ready," she said, before a grumpy Seamus pushed past her.

"You're not going to unpetrify him?" Ginny asked Semaus as he relieved her from the weight of Harry's legs.

"Not tonight," he answered gruffly.

"Harry needs to calm down a bit," said Dean, beginning to lift Harry's weight by the shoulders.

"He's not staying like that all night!" said Parvati, walking over to them, wand in hand.

Both Dean and Seamus dropped Harry back onto the sofa and took out their own wands.

"We already went through this, Parvati," said Dean tiredly. "You unpetrify him, he's probably going to punch Seamus this time, and then I'm going to have to petrify him."

"Harry's off his rocker tonight," said Seamus. "I really don't want to deal with it."

"Seamus, she's right, he can't stay like that" said Ginny. "Besides, it's not right to turn your wand on a friend," Ginny chastised. "It's poor manners and erodes trust."

Seamus relented, mostly because he simply wanted to get back to the comfort of his bed. He walked over to make eye contact with Harry. "Look mate, I'm really sorry I petrified you. You've been—weird—for days now, so if you could just stop that, it would be great."

Ron rolled his eyes and spoke to Harry himself. "We're going to unpetrify you, but if you act up again—it's four against one. We don't want to do this to you, but you need to stop being a prat."

"Finite Incantatem," said Seamus.

Draco raised his hand to knock on Hermione's door, but opted for taking a deep breath and a step back instead. Rubbing his brow in stressed thought, he leaned against the banister. There was a disconcerting part of him that both feared and wished that what the youngest Weasley had told him was a lie. So much weighed on her return. Was she blind? If Weasley's tears were any indication, then the answer was a heart-wrenching yes. And for all that he had read and learned—he still couldn't explain how medi-witches and healers couldn't cure her non-magical blindness.

And if she wasn't blind, what had taken her so long to get back? Even in the best-case scenario, incidentally also the most unlikely, where Hermione was in perfect health and was simply made to rest all those days, there was still Blaise. Now that he knew what was going on—would he ruin it? Would he out him to Hermione to prevent Slytherin from disgrace, or something like that?

Would Blaise hurt her?

The thought made Draco immediately wish she were as far away as possible. It suddenly became very clear to him that he was no good for Hermione Granger. He hadn't really noticed it before because it used to be a good thing for him. For years, he sought to tease her, anger her, knock her down a peg, get her into trouble; being Draco Malfoy helped him in those endeavors. But now that he cared for her, wanted her completely unharmed and happy—being himself was his biggest obstacle. Next to him, it was a guarantee that Hermione was going to get hurt. Leaving her would probably be the best thing he could do for her. Perhaps Pomfrey did know what she was talking about.

But Draco didn't want to leave her. In fact, he wanted to be with her as much as possible; it wasn't in him to be a selfless fool. He was Slytherin after all.

Draco ran a frustrated hand through his hair. He needed to figure out how to protect Hermione from Blaise, and all of Slytherin, without losing her. No, losing her was not an option.

His heartbeat sped up as the answer hit him. He had to tell her. He had to tell her about the bet with Blaise, how it was made at the beginning of the year—before they became serious. How he's tried to call it off, but Blaise wouldn't budge. How Blaise might do something to her, because of him. If he worded it just right, she wouldn't leave him—how could she? Gryffindors were suckers for do-gooders, and coming clean is definitely something do-gooders do.

But it wasn't that simple. There were things about the story that Draco simply didn't want Hermione to know: what was at stake, for example, or why they had chosen her. Draco wasn't exactly sure what conclusions Hermione had come to in the past few months about the kind of human being he was, but something told him she wouldn't respond well to his former determination to deflower her—and all for the sake of a reputation he knew she never respected. Nor would she find it flattering that she was considered enough of a prude to prove a formidable challenge.

Still, if she was going to hear about the bet at all, it needed to be from him. If Hermione heard it from him first, he'd be able to do more damage control. Lord knew Slytherin was tactful when it came to humiliation—the damage they could inflict on an unsuspecting mind was endless. Draco wasn't sure he could help himself as much if Blaise got to her first.

Draco looked wearily at Hermione's door. There was no doubt he didn't want to tell her about the bet. But with Blaise back, well, he didn't seem to have a choice. He took a deep breath in an attempt to fill the deep pit forming in his stomach. He pushed himself off the banister and took a step towards Hermione's door.

His fist was raised, poised for knocking, when the door suddenly opened. Draco quickly put his fist down, and felt his breath leave him as his eyes locked with Hermione's.

They were brown again. Brown like chocolate, brown like the rich earth, brown like everything he knew to be good in this miserable world. Draco had only braced himself for bad news. He was ready to face a struggling, unadapted Hermione trying to find her way to the door and possibly injuring herself on the way. But this good news left him unable to mask the immense relief he felt. His eyes softened, his smile grew, and his breathing returned to him in ragged, slow excitement. He took her face in his hands and kissed her once on the lips.

"You can see," he checked, just to make sure he wasn't celebrating too early.

"Y-yes," said Hermione, looking at him oddly. Draco missed it, because he laughed at that moment, before kissing her forehead and then engulfing her in his arms. He buried his face in her wet curls, the scent of her shampoo still strong, and let out a sigh so deep it sounded like a growl.

Hermione's arms instinctively wrapped around Draco, too surprised to say anything.

"You are never playing rugby again," said Draco, and that seemed to give Hermione the push she needed to formulate words.

"Why not?" she asked, a little offended. Pulling back just enough to look at Draco, she reasoned "I scored more than anybody—"

"That's—debatable."

"How," she asked, pulling back just a little more.

"Well they went easier on you—"

"Oh did they?"

Draco caught himself. "Well, except for Potter—"

"Others tackled me, too," she cut quickly. "I still managed to score before you told them to stop passing it to me."

"It doesn't matter," said Draco, a little frustrated. "This isn't about your skill in the game, Hermione."

"Then what is it about?" she asked, slowly pulling herself completely out of his arms.

Noticing the distance she put between them, Draco clenched his jaw. "Since when is rugby a passion of yours?" he accused.

"It's not about passion—"

"Then what is it?" he asked. "Why are you so bent on playing again?"

"I'm not bent on playing again, I'm bent on not being forbidden from playing again," she snapped. "There's a difference, you know."

"Oh," said Draco dryly. "This is a power play in your head isn't it?"

"It's not a power play, Draco. I just think it's unfair that you think the reason this happened to me was because I was there, on the field, playing rugby."

"It wouldn't've happened if you hadn't been."

"Of course not, but it also wouldn't've happened if Harry hadn't been playing, too. I didn't do anything wrong, he did! Why don't you prevent him from ever playing rugby again?"

"I nearly prevented him from living after what he did to you!" shouted Draco, a frustrated pink tinting his ears. "Do you seriously think I blame you?"

Hermione opened her mouth to answer him, but faltered after catching the slight hurt that flashed in his eyes. Sighing, she dropped her face into her hands and turned to sit on her bed. "I'm sorry, Draco," she said, looking up at him and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "It's been a long night, and I'm afraid I'm just a little defensive right now."

Draco fought the urge to reply dryly, and instead walked over to her desk and took a seat.

"You missed quite the show," said Hermione.

Draco looked over at her, still a little sour. "Oh yeah?"

Hermione nodded. "They all followed me from Dumbledore's office, even though I made it clear I didn't want company. But Harry really wanted to walk me back, and the rest came along because, well, they had their own questions I guess."

"Does that mean Potter knows our password?" asked Draco.

"Yeah. We'll have to change it tomorrow. I'll take care of it."

"Who gave Potter the bloody nose?" asked Draco.

Hermione smiled in spite of herself at the memory. "Ron," she said.

Draco's eyebrows shot up. "Weasley knows how to make a fist? I'm impressed," he said. "Though I kind of hoped it had been your doing."

"I barely talked to him," Hermione replied quickly. "I just pretended he wasn't there."

"How mature," smirked Draco, and easily caught the pillow Hermione threw his way. "What made Weasley see the light?" he laughed.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "It didn't take enlightenment to get Ron to punch Harry."

"I beg to differ, but go on."

Hermione hesitated. "There was a group discussion going on," she said tactfully, "and afterwards Harry tried to stay behind. Ron started trying to convince him to leave, and before I knew it, they were screaming and Ron had punched Harry in the face."

"Let her rest, Harry."

"Don't get involved—"

"She's had a rough day, mate."

Harry turned back to Hermione. "If you could just let me explain—"

"I don't want to talk to you," said Hermione curtly. "Leave," she bit out, turning to go up the stairs to her bedroom.

Sensing that his chance to talk to Hermione was slipping away, Harry quickly went after her and took hold of her arm. "Please," he began, just as Hermione had yanked her arm out of his hold. "Just five minutes."

Ron walked over to Harry and mumbled "Come on, mate. You'll see her tomorrow."

The idea that he'd have to wait another night to talk to Hermione renewed Harry's sense of desperation. In a frantic move, he walked up the few steps Hermione had advanced on him, and reached out for her with both hands. He spun her around, a little harder than he'd meant to, and was about to apologize for it when he felt Ron force himself between them and slightly push him away.

"Don't" said Ron tensely.

Too surprised, Harry just gaped at his red-headed best friend.

"You can't go around grabbing her like that. You've inflicted yourself enough physically, don't you think?"

"What is that supposed to mean?" asked Harry quickly.

"You sent her to St. Mungo's, Harry. Give her a night to herself."

"Ron," said Hermione, but Harry interrupted.

"I just want to talk to her, I'm not looking to hurt her."

"Of course not, you did that already."

"Guys," said Neville from the common room, but it was ineffective.

"You think I did that on purpose?!" shouted Harry.

"It sure looked like you meant to do damage when you tackled her!"

"You didn't even see it!"

"She didn't have the ball, Harry! I don't need to have seen it—"

"And you think I'd do that again?! Is that why you're standing there?"

"No one thinks you'll do that again," said Seamus sincerely, and both Harry and Ron realized that he and Neville had slowly been making their way over to them. Oddly enough, it only served to increase the tension between the two.

"Yeah?" said Harry. "Well I'm not sure Ron here knows that."

"I don't," he replied easily. "You're grabbing her like she has to listen to you tonight! It can't be in her own time, can it? She doesn't want to talk to you right now, deal with it!"

"Easy for you to say, you've never cared for Hermione," Harry shot bitterly.

"I NEVER CARED FOR HERMIONE?" shouted Ron, and before Hermione could voice her growing frustration with being talked about like she wasn't in the room, she saw Ron's arm pull back, missing her face by inches, and lunge forward to make a painful contact with Harry's face.

"RON!" said Hermione, taking hold of the offensive arm and looking over his shoulder to see Harry on the floor, struggling out of the arms of a frantic Parvati, with a blotch of red slowly growing under his nose.

Seamus immediately stepped in front of Ron and held him back.

"I should've done that a week ago!" said Ron as he struggled to get Hermione to let go of his arm and to look at Harry past Seamus' form. "The only reason I didn't was because you were so miserable, but since you've decided to be such a sod lately, I don't feel so bad!"

"I only wanted to talk to her!" shouted Harry, slightly distracted by his bleeding nose.

"I don't want to fucking talk to you, Potter!" shouted Hermione, so sternly that Ron stopped struggling and Harry, now standing, stopped wiping the blood. "Ever!" she finished, her mouth twitching into a frown.

Realizing that if she stayed any longer she'd lose control of herself, she let go of Ron's arm and steadily made her way up the stairs.

"Hermione—" began Harry.

"You guys know the way out," was all she said before entering her room and angrily locking it.

Draco sighed. "I'd love to punch Potter in the face."

Hermione shook her head. "You missed your chance," she said. "Where were you?"

"Kitchens. Missed dinner."

"Why?" asked Hermione, and Draco remembered the decision he'd made no more than ten minutes ago just outside the room.

If there was ever a moment where telling her everything would fit casually into the conversation, this was it. He'd missed dinner because he was avoiding Blaise. The natural follow-up questions would reveal it all.

"I fell asleep over my research," he said.

"Research?" asked Hermione, panic settling into her features. "Dumbledore said there hadn't been anything major assigned in any of my classes—"

"Oh, no," said Draco, hoping his heavy conscience wasn't obvious. "It wasn't for class." He rose from the chair to avoid fidgeting tellingly in it, and went to sit on the bed.

"For what, then?"

"Your condition," he said, after an unsure pause. He took note that the oversized white t-shirt she was wearing couldn't possibly be hers. "I wanted to know more about it in case the healers at St. Mungo's were as incompetent as Old Bat Pomfrey."

"Draco," Hermione chastised. "Madame Pomfrey did all that she could."

"Right," said Draco sarcastically.

"And you know more than she does?"

"I don't want to talk about what she did or didn't do," said Draco dismissively. "I want to know what was wrong with you." A wave of frustration swept through him. "I've looked at everything I could get my hands on here at Hogwarts, and there's just nothing I've come across that'll explain why Pomfrey couldn't heal your blindness herself. It wasn't magically induced," he continued, "so that entire spectrum should be ruled out unless there's something I wasn't aware of. Did Potter leak out magic like 3 year-old or something?"

"No he didn't leak out—"

"So you shouldn't've been sent to St. Mungo's," said Draco, as if a mistake had been made by the powers that be. "The source was your head trauma, and the parts of the eye anatomy most likely to get injured by head trauma are the retina or the optical nerve. Both damages could've been easily healed by Pomfrey or, you know, a competent medi-witch. Heck, the potions and wand work aren't even difficult. I could've healed you mysel—"

Hermione's lips had made an urgent connection with his at that moment, taking his face into her hands and shutting her eyes tightly. Not having expected it, Draco's eyes remained open for a few seconds before he gathered his wits, wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close. Thoughts of ocular science and confessing about hurtful bets fled from his mind. Having her lips brush so fervently against his chased away all academic curiosity and soothed his unease, encouraging his more animalistic instincts to the forefront of his decision-making.

And then, as if he'd been starved of her for years, Draco roughly deepened his kiss; unable to hold back and ready to devour every bit of her and surrender every bit of himself. He shifted her weight so that he could easily lay her on the bed, his movements swift and feral. Swallowing her gasp and the shaky sigh that followed, he brought his hand up to her cheek, dragged it into her chestnut curls, and took a firm hold of them. He tore his mouth away from hers and took tactfully to her neck. The pressure behind his navel increased as he heard a strained, light moan escape her throat.

Hermione managed to part her legs and allow Draco to settle possessively between them. He pressed himself against her as much as he could, willing himself to remain tactful as he felt her tug his shirt out of his pants. Her hands slipped under it, and slowly brushed their way up his chest and down again. After she unbuttoned his shirt with slow, patient hands and cast it aside, Draco's mouth returned to hers with a slow, rhythmic depth that made Hermione's toes curl.

He slid his own hands under her t-shirt, and was visibly surprised when she lifted her arms over her head. He pulled back slowly and gave her a questioning look, which she replied to with an amused smile.

"Well what do you know," said Draco huskily, lifting the shirt over her head and discarding it on the floor. "If I didn't know any better I'd say you missed me, Hermione Granger."

"You have no idea," she said, craning her neck to capture his lips. Draco immediately leaned into the kiss, his hands making their slow way up to her breasts.

His hands were cold through the fabric, and Hermione instantly felt her heartbeat quicken. She hoped he wouldn't notice, but the small smirk that interrupted their kiss informed her otherwise.

He began to trail small kisses down her neck and onto her chest, allowing Hermione the time to become very aware of her undergarments. Momentarily scolding herself for not having checked earlier, she glanced down to take a look at what she was wearing. To her relief, it was a blue-laced number without any padding. His lips were now torturously hovering over the lace, looking up at her with a knowing, haughty squint in his eyes.

Smirking just a bit, he pressed his lips to the fabric covering her nipple before slowly crawling one of his fingers up to slide the strap off her shoulder. He trailed his finger back down along the strap and toyed with the fabric of the cup before gently pulling it down.

His lips were warm and his tongue was surprisingly gentle. He looked up at her; pleased when he saw her bite her lip and loll her head back. This was the farthest Hermione had let him go, and he was going to make sure she liked it enough to let him do it again. He needed to know that he could have her like this in the future: uninhibited, hot and vulnerable to his touch. His own blood had never rushed south so quickly. Something about her heavy-lidded eyes, watching him intently with curiosity, and then flashing with inexperienced lust, made his chest swell with something he'd never felt before.

"I love you," he said without thinking, freezing once he realized what had come out of his mouth.

Hermione had also frozen. Her hands in his hair, her head tilted toward the headboard, Hermione could barely breathe.

"What?" she whispered in disbelief, looking down at him.

"I," said Draco, quickly searching the English language for a reasonable substitute for what he'd just recklessly communicated. "I, um—"

"You love me?" asked Hermione, moving to sit up. Draco nervously released a breath of air he didn't know he had been holding at hearing her repeat what he'd said, and lifted himself off of her.

A familiar look came across Hermione's face at that moment, and Draco wasn't sure how he felt about it. It was logical and calculating, and it soon required her to pace the length of the bed, back and forth.

"Look, Hermione," began Draco, let's just pretend I never said that, he wanted to say, but realized he was better off not saying anything at all and settled for watching her mull things over.

"Did you mean it?" asked Hermione, only ceasing her pacing and looking at him when he didn't answer. "Well?"

Draco opened his mouth to respond, but since he didn't want to, he didn't.

"I've never been in love before," she said, resuming her pacing. "I wouldn't know it if it hit me in the face," she defended.

Draco's lips parted in slight shock. He was suddenly very aware of the situation—how cruelly ironic it was that Hermione, the first girl he'd ever sincerely declared himself to, was not sure she loved him back. His entire life, Draco had always felt significantly less than his girlfriend. Had he just assumed that whatever he felt, Hermione would feel the same, if not more?

Hermione was rambling—something about how it was perfectly logical that she couldn't respond to him immediately—and Draco, still in awe, turned to grab his shirt. He didn't bother putting it on.

"You're leaving," noted Hermione nervously. "Why are you leaving?"

Draco looked at her. "We both need rest," he said. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Draco, wait—"

"Goodnight, Hermione," said Draco, and closed the door lightly.

Hermione thought about going after him, but seeing as she didn't have anything new to say, realized it could only make things worse. So Hermione remained rooted to her spot until she heard the door to Draco's room shut. Relieved it wasn't an angry slam, she pensively made way back to the bed and replayed the last five minutes of her life.

She had so much thinking to do.

Author's Apology:

I can't begin to express just how sorry I am to have left this story as unattended as I did. It was never my intention to leave any of you waiting this long. To be completely honest, I have no excuse. I may have been busy, and there was some serious writer's block in there, too, but I could've tried more. I'm sorry I didn't.

And you readers are so absolutely GREAT that it just makes me feel worse about myself. Throughout the years of my absence, I still received reviews and private messages encouraging me to continue. I want to tell you all right now that I've read each and every single one. To those whom I replied by promising I'd "update soon," I'm sincerely sorry. I did not ever forget about you. I started this chapter multiple times, and many times thought I was close to finishing it before I just trashed the whole thing.

Before, I felt my writing was mostly done for myself. I wrote because in the worlds I created, I had control. This time around, I wrote for you. Not for your reviews (though I love your feedback and encouragement), or to get away from my own life, but to give you the escape I myself still seek for every now and again. I hope you enjoyed this chapter (there are just two left!) and that whether you're reading this on your laptops or phones or ipads, that you're doing well.

Oh, and in response to one review many years ago: Purple. (See? I do read every single one.)