21

* * * Chapter 21: November 23, 1997 (continued)* * *

He'd been nervous about approaching his friend and mentor for advice, but that paled in comparison to what he was about to do. Draco's hands were shaking by the time he reached the Great Hall. He told himself just needed a quick glass of juice to calm his nerves and raise his blood sugar, unwilling to admit that a breakfast detour would give him a few more precious seconds of safety before plunging into the unknown.

As it was, a sip of juice was all he could manage before the butterflies occupying his stomach went into a complete rebellion. Shite. Better to get it over with, he thought, rising from his seat as Theo Nott tried to join him. Ignoring his friend's puzzled glare, Draco steeled his face into a semblance of neutrality and plowed up the marble stairs as though climbing the gallows.

The portrait to the suite flew open as he opened his mouth to speak the password, and promptly smacked his forehead.

"Oh, good heavens! Are you hurt? I didn't know you were there!" He was suddenly immersed in a strangely familiar state of Granger + Pain, though this was hardly the metaphorical type. Draco couldn't answer at first; an edge of the carven frame had connected soundly with the nerve behind his right brow and sent a burst of electricity back over his scalp. It was all he could do to keep his feet.

"Here. Let me help you. Oh dear, oh dear--did it get you in the eye? Do you need Madam Pomfrey? I could--"

"Chair," he squeaked, waiting for the stars to stop dancing through his vision.

"Yes, yes, here you go," she fretted, guiding him to the nearest armchair and easing him into it with her arms upon his shoulders. The initial shock now wearing off, Draco began to feel a hint of amusement at her distress, but was still too busy holding his face on to enjoy it.

"Maybe some ice?" Granger piped anxiously after a few seconds of silence.

It broke the tension for him, for this was hardly a serious wound, just an insult, really, and it was already settling down to a dull ache. He knew he oughtn't do it, but he leaned his head back against the chair and groaned, his hands pressed tight against his forehead. "I need," he began, halting with a little gasp. "Could you..."

"What?" said the girl, looking utterly miserable in her concern.

"Kiss and make it all better?" he finally purred, dropping his hands and giving her an impish smile. Or he tried to, at least; he couldn't quite convince his right eye that it was truly out of danger and could open again without fear.

She stared long enough for it to sink in (which wasn't very long at all), then rolled her eyes and sank onto the tuffet in front of his chair. "You troll. I was really worried!"

"Well, take comfort that it really does hurt," he groused, but smiled at her. "Feels like a bolt of lightning struck my face. Where were you off in such a hurry? Not going to America already, are you?"

Oops.

Granger sat up very straight and eyed him strangely. "Going where?" she asked cautiously.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. It had been on his mind for too long now, and he'd let it slip out. Now what? The blow to his forehead had unsettled him more than he'd realized; he should already have made a response. FUCK! Reduced to the truth again.

"America. The All-Star Quidditch game in Area 51. I heard Potter... invited you."

She cocked her head, puzzled. "You did? I didn't think I'd mentioned it to anyone. Well, that was weeks ago, I suppose I might have," she mused, then looked up sharply. "Only I'm not going. Where'd you get the idea I was going?" Her eyes narrowed and the concern left her voice. "Did someone from the Prophet come round to snoop about my schedule? Dumbledore told them not to come hounding anyone here for my whereabouts--"

"Down, girl," Draco chided, smiling far too broadly in relief. "Nothing like that. I heard you were invited and I assumed you were going. That's all. But you're not going?" He hadn't meant for it to come out as a question, but he was so delighted that it slipped away from him.

Hermione snorted. "Of course not! An overblown Quidditch match followed by photo ops and autographs all evening?" She stuck out her tongue. "No, thank you!"

"You were at the last World Cup," he pointed out rather lamely.

"'Last' being the operant word in that sentence, as far as I'm concerned. One was quite enough."

"But Potter... Weasley. Krum. They'll all be there." Draco forced himself to shut the hell up before he got into further trouble, though it was hard to imagine how he could make things any worse from there. Granger squinted at him again, the little cogs turning swiftly in her head.

"What about them?"

"I think I got hit harder than I realized," Draco said, but it was so utterly transparent that neither of them bothered to acknowledge it.

Granger sat staring at him for some time before a tiny smile started to show at the corners of her mouth. But it stopped there; there was no twinkle in her eyes, no merriment. "If this were anyone else, I'd guess that was a hint of jealousy," she said very carefully. "But with you, who knows? If you're starting up another game with me, Malfoy--"

"I'm not. No games," he said, grimacing at the harsh sound of his surname. "Granger... Hermione," he began, but immediately went blank. She wasn't going to America, wasn't drawn in by Potter's frank invitation to his bed, nor by Weasley or even Viktor Krum. She was right there with him. She'd danced with him, sat with him before the fire, tolerated that idiotic gargoyle.

You idiot, how many more chances do you think you're going to get?

Draco shifted his hands to her waist, keeping his gaze firmly locked with hers. A whole new sort of tension began to well between them, deliberate and sensual, each gauging the other's intent. He leaned closer and stopped. "No more games," he whispered.

She caught her breath as her gaze dropped to his mouth, and he needed no further permission.