The air was silent, empty of voices.
Only the leaves overhead rustled softly in the cool night breeze. The moon drifted through the passing clouds.
Hermione returned to her silence.
She looked up wistfully at the ever-changing moonlight, then chose a spot... deliberately far from Draco... that gave a clear view of the Whomping Willow, and sat down as still as stone.
She stared at the entrance to the willow's hollow, like a wary little rabbit afraid of being approached.
Draco was the only one not watching the Whomping Willow.
He had been watching Hermione instead.
Her behaviour left him feeling hollow and lost.
Hermione, his girl, seemed to have shut herself away inside some sort of armour there in the Hogwarts corridor.
She had grown aloof, proud, and unyielding.
It seemed as though all the care she had once shown him was nothing more than discarded potion dregs. It seemed as though the sadness and the tears were not things that had happened only that day, but something from the distant past, or perhaps merely Draco's imagining.
Her manner filled him with a sudden, inexplicable panic.
Yes, he had never expected her to like him.
He had naively thought he could accept "keeping his distance from her" as an option.
So long as she was well and unharmed, that was all that mattered.
No one was permitted to hurt her, himself included.
So long as she was well, nothing else mattered.
He would simply protect her silently, protect the girl who had been so hurt in the past... that had been his plan ever since his rebirth.
But the moment he had faced the werewolf, the instant he had faced death, he had regretted it.
They had held each other tightly.
He had held her, and she had held him in return.
They had been so close their heartbeats had mingled, impossible to tell whose was whose; so close their cheeks had pressed together, impossible to tell whose tears were falling.
He was unwilling to accept it now. Who could accept it?
She had nestled in his arms, as though she belonged there.
Who could willingly let her go, after that?
She had been sweet, she had smiled, she had been full of feeling, and had blushed when she looked at him.
Draco was entirely unwilling to accept this new coldness.
On the brink of life and death, she had kindled the last hope in his heart.
Flames had leapt skyward, making the withered wood of his heart crackle and spark.
The sound had been so loud it made this silence deafening; so loud that he could not accept her present icy manner.
She could not simply push him away, could not ignore him, could not keep herself so far from him.
She had once nuzzled his cheek so intimately, whispering fondly in his ear.
He had loved the way she treated him. He wanted more of it still.
He wanted to try, to hold her again in his own hands.
Watching Hermione's forlorn figure, Draco knew he had to do something before she shut him out entirely.
He walked over hesitantly, then spoke tentatively. "Hermione, about that business, the thing that made you angry, I want to explain it to you. Actually, I... I have a great many feelings for you, and I like you a great deal..."
"Yes, sisterly affection." Hermione interrupted him, letting out a weary sigh.
No, that is not how it is, Draco cried out inwardly.
He gazed at her stubborn profile, a thousand words caught in his throat, unsure where to begin.
"I feel this is unfair to you. You are still rather young, and I do not want my one-sided feelings to cloud your judgement..." He exhaled softly, a faint bitterness on his lips.
Besides him, she had so many choices, endless possibilities.
Perhaps Harry, perhaps Ron, perhaps Krum, or perhaps none of them, but someone even better still.
Any one of them was more likely to bring her happiness than he was.
Who was Draco Malfoy?
He was a quagmire, a mire thick with sordid memories.
He was not innocent, not bright and shining, he was thoroughly dreadful.
He was selfish, unprincipled, and cowardly.
He was a Slytherin through and through, a coward, and would never become a brave Gryffindor.
For her, he had never been a good choice, Draco thought bitterly.
"To me, that sounds like a poor excuse. Draco Malfoy, you are far too arrogant! I have my own thoughts and my own judgement. Besides, I am nearly a year older than you, and you have no business thinking me younger than anyone else."
Hermione looked steadily at the Whomping Willow, a hint of sarcasm in her voice.
Draco sighed softly.
Age really is a difficult thing to explain.
He might look thirteen, but at heart he is twenty.
"In short, I do not accept such a ridiculous reason." Hermione glanced at him, then quickly looked away, as though burned by the colour of his hair.
She secretly pinched her palm, maintaining her haughty expression. "Ginny has liked Harry since her first year, and no one thought it was any kind of joke."
Caught off guard, Harry, who had been eavesdropping nearby, blushed deeply.
He edged away silently, trying to put as much distance as he could between himself and these two, who seemed liable to breathe fire or ice at any moment.
He even looked about, wishing he could sink into the ground and escape this stifling conversation.
"Perhaps you are right," Draco finally said, after a long silence.
In the dim moonlight, he looked at Hermione's stubborn expression and tried, in a gentler tone, to win her understanding. "I... perhaps I was a little presumptuous. If I hurt you, I am sorry."
"Do not trouble yourself over it. I have already had my revenge on the spot. We are even," she said indifferently.
"So, that kiss... perhaps you could give me a hint?" Draco asked cautiously.
This remained an utter mystery to him.
"There is no need to bring it up again. I do not wish to discuss it any further." She stopped looking at him and stared intently at the tree hollow, seemingly no longer troubling herself over him.
Hermione was, of course, still very much interested in Draco.
He had risked his life to save her, and the shock of it still made her heart flutter.
She still loved him.
I like him hopelessly, desperately, more than ever.
But she would never again let that affection show without her dignity intact.
She would never again lose herself in his clear, untainted grey eyes, lest she fall back into so miserable and humiliating a state.
Yes, she could not yet govern her heart; but at least she could govern her actions, starting with not looking at him.
Hermione silently admonished herself.
The feeling of being so coolly ignored by the girl fell on Draco's stirring hopes like a handful of ice, shattering into pieces and twisting his heart into a wretched knot.
He watched her anxiously, unsure what more he could say to win back her heart... the heart he himself had wounded.
Merlin, how could he have hurt her again? He was filled with remorse.
He could not tear his eyes from her. Even when she no longer looked his way, he still wanted to keep looking at her.
She sat with her back to him, her brown hair stirring in the breeze. Like flickering flames, it tormented and scorched his eyes. Thick smoke of regret billowed skyward, searing his insides.
Merlin, he was a heap of pale ash, about to be scattered by this chilling night wind.
But his eyes remained stubbornly fixed on her, willing enough to be tormented so.