Hermione recalled their conversation as she strolled leisurely with Draco down the candlelit corridor.
"Draco, Professor Snape's original Patronus..." Hermione asked with interest, "what was it, exactly?"
"A bat," Draco said quietly. "His earlier Patronus was a bat. That is why Sirius Black used to call him a greasy little bat."
"Oh," Hermione said, at a loss for a reply.
She walked in silence for a while, then suddenly realised he was still walking with her.
She suddenly realised he seemed to mean to see her all the way back to Gryffindor Tower before heading back down to his own Slytherin common room.
"Draco, there is really no need for all that," she said awkwardly, glancing at him furtively. "I think I know the way back to my own common room."
It really is inconvenient, is it not?
One at the top of a great tower, the other at the bottom of a dark, murky lake, she thought dejectedly.
"I insist." He said calmly, "You have had quite enough excitement for one day. I want to make sure you get back to your dormitory without any further mishaps."
"Well, all right then," she said hesitantly.
Tonight, she really did not want to encounter any more accidents, coincidences, or anything else at all.
However, she kept sensing that something about him was different.
It seemed things had taken a strange turn ever since she had punched him.
Draco Malfoy was a proud boy. Every bit as proud as she was. Even the snoring portraits along the corridor had heard something of his pride.
"When it comes to sheer toughness, Draco Malfoy is definitely near the top of the list... in every sense," she had once heard the fearless Fred say to Lee Jordan with a grin.
Throughout Hogwarts, almost no one dared to truly provoke him, or gain the upper hand over him, let alone strike him... that was unthinkable.
But she had struck him. And, strangely enough, he had not been angry, his pride had not been wounded, he had not retaliated cruelly, and he had not shunned her or cut her off for good.
Instead, he had grown gentler, more compliant, more eager than ever to be close to her.
Even though she had tried to keep up a fierce front tonight, he had paid it no mind, and had gone on treating her kindly regardless.
He had shielded her, held her, comforted her, tended her wounds, fed her chocolate, and was now walking her back to her dormitory.
Was this a reasonable response to being punched? Had she knocked something loose in him? Hermione was thoroughly confused.
He was even taking extra care of her, and had done so all night long. His tenderness and consideration only made her feel more and more attached to him, and dependent upon him, even as the bitterness in her heart grew ever deeper.
The better he treated her, the more it unsettled her... he was treating her like a little sister again.
Hermione sighed in frustration, her steps growing heavy as she climbed the stairs.
"What is wrong?" he asked, catching it at once. "Are you tired?"
"Mm," she replied noncommittally.
"I shall pull you along, then." He casually took her hand, laced his fingers through hers, and held it firmly as he led her onward.
Hermione could hear her own heartbeat again. The sound shattered the silence of the night.
"Listen, Hermione, I want to apologise to you about..." Draco hesitated before beginning, trying to explain the misunderstanding.
"No, no, do not say it," Hermione said hastily. "I do not wish to talk about it."
"All right," he said uneasily, and fell silent.
The candlelight flickered hesitantly in its niche, and the boy and girl climbed the silent stairs together, one step at a time.
He slowed what had once been an arrogant stride to match hers; he led her gently, guiding her away from all the treacherous trick steps.
Like some unreal, dark, sweetly scented dream, he held her hand silently, warm, firm, and strong.
The dappled light and shadow across the bones of his face lent him a kind of beauty that was almost breathtaking, or heartbreaking.
Her heart was pounding, and her heart was breaking, both at once.
It was as though some trapped creature were bound up within her chest. She could hardly breathe, nor make a sound.
In the lonely, deserted night, their fingers stayed entwined.
A lingering sense of melancholy hung over her. Her love for him was burning towards its very peak, about to soar skyward; yet her despair, too, had sunk to its lowest depth, about to shatter her utterly to dust.
"Draco," Hermione began with difficulty, her voice hesitant and full of bitterness, "could you... not be so good to me..."
He ought not to be so good to her.
Who could possibly resist such kindness from him?
So gentle, so attentive, so misleading, so seemingly matchless in his goodness.
Who could be certain their heart would remain steady as stone, unmoved by such a cruel boy?
"Could you... not hold my hand?" Hermione said, shrinking back.
She tried to pull her hand free and put some distance between them; but he held on and would not let go.
He stopped and turned to look at her.
Those serious grey eyes blinked slowly, then fixed intently upon her.
She could see her own face reflected in them.
That face showed some confusion, some fragility, and some sorrow.
Exhaustion had betrayed her hidden ill humour. He had probably already seen straight through her pretence, Hermione thought wearily.
They stood in silence, gazing at one another for a long while on the deserted staircase.
"No," Draco said softly, but firmly.
At that moment, his face was no longer stern, no longer so terribly serious.
He smiled at her, his eyes bright.
He gazed deeply into her eyes, as though trying to catch hold of her fiery soul. And then, he would embrace it without hesitation, however fierce it burned, whether it scorched him, whether it reduced his withered self to ashes.
He smiled quietly, a very faint mist in his eyes.
In the face of death, they had still managed to hold one another; but now, having escaped death, he was weary of retreating and hiding away.
Her hand rested in his. He was being terribly selfish; he did not want to let go, he wanted to try.
What would happen, if he simply kept holding her hand?
"I am sorry, Hermione, I cannot." He gazed at her intently and murmured, "I want to be good to you. I... I want to hold your hand."
She was stunned by his answer.
He is being utterly unreasonable!
She wanted to argue with him at once. Merlin help her, beside him, she truly wanted to argue.
However, the smile he wore was exactly the kind she liked, even though a faint gleam of moisture seemed to show through the shadow of his lashes.
He seemed certain of something, and yet there was a palpable unease about it too. She could sense that unease, because she felt it herself. She forgot to argue, and instead found herself drawn into a confusing state by his expression.
She found herself wondering why he seemed so uneasy.
She let him lead her onward, and they continued climbing.
She remained silent, torn, with a trace of joy and hope, and a touch of foolish doubt and wishful thinking besides.
Hermione decided to set aside her thinking, just for now.
Perhaps this was not the moment to be pondering such weighty questions. It was hardly the time for clear-headed reflection.
Perhaps she ought simply to relax, and take what small sense of security this quiet emptiness could offer.
"I have to admit something to you." As the corridor drew towards its end, Hermione gathered her thoughts and shared with Draco what few of them she could still make sense of.
"What?" he asked.
"I have borrowed a little of your roundabout methods today," Hermione said. "I must admit, sometimes Slytherin's ways do have their merits."
"Well, that really is unexpected," Draco smiled at her, sounding rather pleased. "First you admit the Slytherin professors are not so bad after all, and now you concede Slytherin's methods have their merits. Whatever next? Will you transfer to Slytherin and throw yourself into our arms?"
He accompanied her all the way to the portrait of the dozing Fat Lady, teasing her with a rather loaded remark, watching her intently.
"I am merely stating the truth! Of course I shall not be transferring, I am a Gryffindor through and through!" Hermione argued, her face slightly flushed.
What did "throwing herself into their arms" mean, exactly? His words were far too suggestive.
She glared at him in alarm, but he only smiled happily back at her.
A genuine, delighted laugh, not a false or hollow one.
She put on a disdainful expression, wrinkled her nose at him, let go of his hand, and stepped through the portrait hole without a backward glance; the very next moment, safely hidden behind the portrait, she suddenly clapped her hands over her burning face.
The boy watched the girl's brown hair vanish without a trace behind the portrait, disappearing as lightly as a carefree cat, and could not help chuckling and murmuring, "You heartless little wretch."
"Oh, they are all like that," the Fat Lady said sleepily. "Yet you will go on liking her all the same."
"That is a wise saying indeed." Draco shrugged at her, turned gracefully, and made his way back downstairs.