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Retreat - Act I: Occupation	By : Andreas Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 2548 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1
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Beta: Mishty, Bleachedclouds, Saladbats, Penguin

Retreat

ACT I

O C C U P A T I O N

Get lost, Potter!

Thinking it just wasn't the same. And talking to himself was out of the question.

Besides, he had given up on listening to himself long ago.

Get lost, Potter!

And he was.

~~~*~~~

HARRY POTTER PULLED OUT OF HOGWARTS

HOGSMEADE - Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, has been pulled out of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry by his Muggle legal guardians. This was announced yesterday at the annual Sorting Ceremony. Prof. Minerva McGonagall, school headmistress, has declined to comment on the matter. Meanwhile, the shocking news has increased animosity towards Muggle society in the infected political debate on Wizard/Muggle relations.

"This is nothing short of a disgrace," says Walter White of the Ministry of Magic, "It is yet another example of why Muggles should not be given any kind of influence over wizarding affairs, even if these Dursley people are the boy's legal guardians. Legal by whose laws, I ask?"

White is referring to Vernon and Petunia Dursley, the Muggles given custody of Harry Potter after the tragic death of James Potter and his wife Lily, Mrs Dursley's sister.

Long known to despise everything magical, the Dursleys reportedly decided to terminate Potter's education when an unnamed wizard lawyer informed them of their right to do so. He also, allegedly, pointed the Dursleys in the direction of a place that cannot be found by magical means, which appears to be their nephew's current place of residence.
Claiming to have acted purely in the best interest of their young ward, the Dursleys have refused to even hint at the present location of the Boy Who Lived to avoid setting journalists and the paparazzi on his trail.

Cont. on p.3...

~~~*~~~

1. Moste Potente Monitor

'Get lost Weasel!' Draco Malfoy sneered at the fired-up redhead before him. 'Your hair,� he paused, �offends me.'

But the sneer was just veneer. Behind the mask, Draco heaved a silent sigh. His heart just wasn't in the insults anymore. Where it was, he didn't know. Missing without a trace; probably partying the night away somewhere warm and sunny, in the company of the Patience that had left him years before. And as for warm and sunny, one didn't have to look further than the lively Hogwarts lawns to find that. A warmly welcoming late summer had embraced their seventh-year return to Hogwarts. But, sadly, Draco could appreciate this only on an intellectual level. Emotionally, a biting and desolate winter followed his every grudging step.

That he couldn�t figure out why only made the chill reach that much deeper. It inspired a biting anger surging up from the dreary darkness which seemed to have taken up permanent residence inside his lithe, listless body.

Of course, Draco had been angry through most of his school life, but this was a new anger. The old anger had been burning, passionate, a bright light chasing away the darkness.

This was the darkness.

Burning light could project itself into piercing glares and cutting words, slice through Gryffindor nobility and set fire to the anger of Harry Potter. With that anger lit, matching and opposing his own, a veritable inferno of passion would arise. Such passion fuelled him. The Dragon inside him needed it to keep its flame burning, the flame that chased away the darkness.

Now the darkness had returned. His Dragon lay curled up at the centre of an all-consuming void, withering away. No passion to feed on. No fire to breathe.

Alone.

But Draco refused to settle for this as the sole explanation for his chilly mood. His happiness could not depend on Harry Bloody Potter. After all, there was still Ron Weasley. The deep hatred between their families should have been enough to make Draco's blood boil. And yet it remained as cold as the heart that pumped it.

There was anger. Immense anger. Raging anger and utter loathing.

But no flame.

~~~*~~~

The only thing flaming was Ronald Weasley's hair, matched in intensity by his eyes as he glared at the insufferable prat before him. Waiting alongside sleazy Slytherins to be let into the Potions classroom, Ron rummaged through his brain for a suitable retort to Malfoy's slur.

'At least I don't give dumb blonds a bad name, Malfoy. Some of that bleaching potion must have seeped into your brain if that's the best insult you can think of!' Ron looked pleased with himself.

'I don�t bleach my hair, Weasley. You must be projecting your own desire to eradicate natural hair colour onto me. I would of course have felt the same had I been unfortunate enough to be born a flaming Weasley.'

'As opposed to just flaming?' said Hermione Granger, making her first contribution to this particular Malfoy-Weasley War of Weak Wits.

Draco and Ron turned to stare at her. They chorused a baffled �What?�, and spun back to glare at each other, both making it perfectly clear there would be no further verbal cooperation over this particular border of dislike.

'Too much study muddle your brain, Mudblood?'

'Don't you worry your pretty little head�' said Hermione, moving to touch Malfoy's hair. The blond lurched back, a look of horror marring his usually so perfectly controlled features. '�hair about that, Malfoy, dear.'

Retreating still further to evade the advancing hand, Draco collided with Gregory Goyle (busy perfecting his habitual standing-behind-Malfoy-n-lookin-tough pose). Then, bumping his head against Goyle's chin, Draco tripped over his own feet while trying to side-step this additional threat to his carefully styled hair. Which left an uncharacteristically stunned Draco supported by a characteristically baffled Goyle and the rest of the students goggling at Hermione as she swept past them into the classroom.

These extravagant changes in Granger's behaviour � growing ever more apparent since the start of term � were frankly starting to get on everyone's nerves. If you couldn't predict Hermione Granger, resident genius and library patron, what could you predict?

These were, indeed, troubling times.

Draco straightened his robes, stood up with as regal an air as he could muster, and turned to glare at Granger's retreating backside, upon which Ron Weasley's goggling gaze was already fixated.

The two boys managed a simultaneous 'What the�?' before resuming the glaring contest they had previously abandoned, both silently daring the other to echo his words just one more time. But the next words came from a different direction altogether as a deep and commanding voice boomed from inside the classroom: 'Mr Malfoy, Mr Weasley - should you feel inclined to start some poor excuse for a boys' choir, please do so in your spare time!'

Not one to question the authority of his favourite teacher, Draco sneered once more at Weasley and stalked into the classroom, robes billowing and Crabbe and Goyle bumbling behind.

~~~*~~~

As always, Ron sat next to Hermione in Potions, and as soon as Snape's attention was focused on preventing Pansy Parkinson from blowing up the premises, he leaned sideways, speaking in an urgent whisper.

'What was all that about?'

'All that what?' murmured Hermione, perusing her notes.

'Malfoy's hair! You almost touched it!'

'Almost, yes. Which proved my point.'

'What point?'

She sighed, pointedly. �Currently, it seems to be "Ron Weasley is incredibly dense"...'

'You didn't answer my question! Why would you want to touch Malfoy's hair?' Ron asked, jealousy in his voice, and flushed a deep red at the 'dense' quip.

Hermione moved as if to whisper in his ear, yet merely leaned over to scribble something on his parchment. 'You got that wrong. It's supposed to be two drops, not three. Honestly, Ron, pay attention.'

Ron found it hard to pay attention to anything but the way Hermione's hair tickled his chin, and the sweet scent of roses invading his nose.

'Mr Weasley, Miss Granger, please refrain from cuddling in my classroom.'

Cuddling ceased, as did talking.

~~~*~~~

Not that any real cuddling ever occurred, in class or elsewhere. Hermione bitterly thought of it as the Ron Situation. A Situation grown from infatuation through expectation, frustration and now, finally, desperation.

She'd sowed the ground with hints, watched them grow to seductive innuendoes, rolled out the proverbial red carpet and then - nothing. In matters of the heart, Ron was so dense she�d begun to suspect he could be classified as a new and extremely heavy natural element, a great scientific discovery. Not that she cared much about any discovery save the one involving Ronald Weasley, Adorable Daft Redhead, daring to brave the uncharted straits of Wooing Hermione. It looked as if he would never get around to asking her out, the way things were not going.

Had she seen this Situation coming, she would have been the one to pose the Question. But now things had reached a point where she felt she�d made it so abundantly clear she fancied Ron that approaching him now would just seem desperate. After all, he mightn�t be as interested as she�d thought. Maybe he was just curious: "What would it be like to date one of your closest friends?"

No, she couldn't ask him out. That path was behind her. If he said no, or broke up with her after just a few dates...

No. No. Better to wait.

Better to slowly approach the breaking point.

Better to...

Get away?

Scream?

Both?

Indeed, the Ron Situation was becoming intolerable, but it was not, alas, the only one. Another Situation weighing heavily, not only on her mind but quite often in her arms was the School Situation, complete with Heavy Textbooks galore.

The very idea of Hermione regarding her academic endeavours as a Situation in the same league as the Ron disaster was a strong indication that something was rotten in the State of Granger. Something was also mouldering in her bookshelf, but she couldn�t be bothered to find out what it was - and that was perhaps an even more pungent reminder of just how infected the whole business had become, when she didn't even take proper care of her precious books.

She feared she�d been saturated by the vast amounts of knowledge she�d devoured throughout her Hogwarts career. Half expecting to find herself going mouldy next, she felt she�d somehow turned into an old woman at eighteen. And realising what was expected of her did nothing to brighten her mood. On leaving school, she might well be forced to fight a bloody war, either for the Ministry or for her friends, but she knew she would return to Hogwarts. So much knowledge, such a sucker for rules, and such a deep desire to make others crave learning like she did. Of course she would be offered a teaching position. Naturally, she would accept. Maybe out of a sense of obligation. After all, what else could the Heiress of McGonagall do?

Not that they were actually related. Hermione was the heiress of who and what Professor Minerva McGonagall was, professionally and personally. Of course, it wasn�t official, nor something the professor had even hinted at. Hermione had learnt it as she�d learnt most everything else - through the study of books.

Obscure books on Hogwarts history had revealed that it was traditional for teachers to pay extra attention to, and tutor, students in whom they saw the potential for filling the teaching position they would one day, inevitably, leave vacant. And Professor McGonagall had been paying particular attention to Hermione Granger since their very first year. It was all so obvious.

It was all so awfully apparent and Hermione felt like a shopkeeper's daughter, having no choice but to stay in the family business. Or a princess destined since birth to rule a country. However you looked at it, Hermione was due to remain a part of Hogwarts for as long as she lived. Somewhere along the line of overzealous studying, she�d lost control of her own destiny. And Hermione craved control.

It frustrated her that even though she might choose a future as a Hogwarts teacher because she genuinely wanted it, the rest of the world would see her following a pre-paved path, becoming what they�d always known she�d become. No surprises there. Nothing surprising about predictable old Hermione Granger. Predictable and losing control, at the very same time. It angered her. If she was to lose control of her life, why couldn't she at least do it spectacularly, and not in that quiet, understated way everyone had come to associate with her?

Her favourite teacher saw Hermione Granger as her successor and Hermione found herself both flattered and shattered by this fact. She knew her reaction was silly and illogical but this didn�t make her any less upset, nor any less inclined to simply run away. The answer to this problem wasn�t in any book (however obscure) and Hermione just didn't know what to do, or where to look.

Another who seemed to search for something unplottable was the mysterious Mr. Malfoy. And in keeping with the overall theme of her seventh year at Hogwarts, Hermione had a steadily expanding and rather disturbing folder in her mind labelled The Draco Malfoy Situation. Like its two siblings, this was a Situation she�d have gladly done without, but one she couldn�t ignore, not least because of its ties to that Other Situation, the Big One.

In the past, Hermione had viewed Draco Malfoy merely as an annoying school bully who simply wouldn't leave Harry alone. Late one evening, following the Sorting Ceremony, her viewpoint shifted - irrevocably. That evening, she'd started to take an interest in the person behind the fa�ade.

Still a prefect (she�d turned down the Head Girl position, much to everyone�s surprise), Hermione had walked alone down a deserted hallway that night when she�d heard unmistakable sounds of bullying up ahead. Hurrying forward, she�d heard the mocking voice of Draco Malfoy cut through the commotion, bringing it to a sudden stop.

'QUIET, you mental toddlers!'

Hermione slowed her steps. Malfoy was also a prefect � one known for his vicious attitude to others stepping in when he was Handling a Situation. He took great personal pride in being able to Handle Situations on his own. How ironic, Hermione would later reflect, that he�d prove so inept at handling his own.

Malfoy's voice was cold, drawling, and punishing. 'Just arrived at Hogwarts and already you've set out to prove you should be sent back home on the first train out of here! Is that what you want, you miserable little mongrels?'

Shifting into something more appropriate for covert surveillance, Hermione padded up to the corner of the hallway. She�d scant desire to disturb Malfoy, unless it became clear he couldn't Handle the Situation, but she still needed to see what was happening.

Five first-year Slytherin boys were backing away from the towering figure of Malfoy, shaking their heads and muttering half-hearted excuses. Some steps behind the Slytherin prefect stood yet another Slytherin first-year, a young boy with tousled blond hair, robes rumpled and ripped, his eyes wide and lips trembling, books pressed against his chest.

Hermione cringed at how quickly she deduced why this young boy had come to be the object of the others� need to lash out � their need to bully, to assert themselves, to secure a permanent position within the male power hierarchy of Slytherin house. The boy was, bluntly put, pretty and timid in a traditionally feminine way. He was a sissy-boy. And that she�d classify him as such on first sight deeply disturbed her feminist sensibilities. Her back arched in silent self-reproof.

Malfoy advanced, glaring at the frightened boys. Hermione shivered as she realised just how much he reminded her of Severus Snape at that moment; eyes cold and demanding, robes flowing around him like ghostly smoke from the pits of Hell, a suitably Snapish simile if ever there was one. And if there was anyone Professor Severus Snape paid special attention to, it was Draco Malfoy. Was he the Heir of Snape? She hoped not.

At the time, she�d hoped he wasn�t the Heir of Snape because she didn�t care for a future of working side by side with a bigot like Malfoy. But after that night, she hoped Malfoy wasn�t Heir of Snape for Malfoy's sake. Snape was a broken man, bitter and tormented. It seemed Malfoy was heading down that same path, and Hermione found herself wishing he�d find a brighter, lighter track to tread.

'I won't pull any points this time since, after all, you're Slytherins�'

Oh, Snape would be proud.

'�however, I do suggest you make yourselves scarce before I turn you all into tangerine toads.'

In a matter of seconds, they�d made themselves severely scarce - not a toad, tangerine or otherwise, in sight.

So, this was how Draco Malfoy, Slytherin prefect, handled situations. Simple bullying.

Effective? Yes.

Constructive? Hardly.

Hermione hissed in annoyance.

Malfoy turned to the shivering boy. Would he comfort him? Would he redeem himself by dealing more competently now that the bullies had been scared off? No, of course not. Malfoy was an utter ass - and at that very moment, he set out to prove her right.

'Oh, stop whimpering!' growled Malfoy, agitated and impatient, as though the boy's miserable state were a personal insult.

The boy stopped sniffling. Hermione fought an overwhelming urge to leap forward and claw Malfoy's tongue out.

'If you whimper, they win. If you cry, you only give them tears to feed on.' Malfoy crouched before the frightened boy, his voice lowering to just above a whisper. 'If you show yourself weak, they will pounce on you and pound you down, down, down until you can�t get up again.' He grabbed the boy's shoulders. 'They see weakness in who you are.' He enunciated his next words with careful precision. 'Your only chance is to hide.'

Malfoy got up, circling the first-year. The boy clutched his books tighter and tighter to his chest, mute with fear.

'Hide who you are. Hide in plain sight.'

In the shadows, Hermione agonised over whether to step in and take charge. Mesmerized by the scene enacted before her, she wanted to hear where Malfoy was headed with this strange soliloquy. A soliloquy that seemed strangely rehearsed, ruminated on, performed with an intense rapture she�d seldom seen in Malfoy. At least, not since�

'Strike before you�re struck! Push first and have them push back! Trick, kick, and make. Them. Lick. Your. Boots! Gain the upper hand and swat them like flies!'

Malfoy took a deep breath, staring into space. The boy sniffled. Malfoy whirled around to face the younger Slytherin, eyes ablaze.

'ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME, YOU PATHETIC LITTLE PANSY!?' He shoved the boy against the wall. The books thudded to the floor. Hermione crouched low, muscles taut, ready to attack at any further signs of abuse. But none seemed to be forthcoming. Malfoy bent down to stare at the boy and spoke in a calm, cold, steady voice. 'You're a Slytherin now. Be a right bastard and you will be revered. Be nice and they�ll exploit your every weakness. Act like a complete bastard and you�ll be all right. Acting - should come naturally.' His mouth twisted into what, in a different facial context, might have been called a smile.

For the first time, the boy found his voice. 'But I'm not... I can't...'

Malfoy shut his eyes, sighed, and opened them again. 'No, you're too much of a sissy-boy, aren't you?' His trademark sneer was answered by a scowl. 'Why did I even bother? You're nothing but a second-rate little ponce.' For the second time, he shoved the boy against the wall. But this time, the boy, tears of betrayal in his eyes, lunged at the prefect, arms flailing, clawing, beating.

'Bastard! Bastard! Bastard!'

Face blank, Malfoy stretched out his arm, pushing the boy back, effortlessly. 'True.' His voice had a strange, taunting sing-song quality to it. 'But what are you going to do about it?'

Short arms made futile attempts to reach Malfoy's stony face.

'You can't do anything to me.' Malfoy thrust the boy backwards with such strength that the tiny first-year fell over, landing painfully on his books. Malfoy rose. 'Yes, I'm a bastard. Yes, you hate me.' He loomed over the younger boy. 'No, don't even think about trying to get even with me. You can't. Get even with people your own age, if you can manage that, you little wimp.' And with that, he left.

Hermione watched as the boy gathered his books, muttering dark curses (all of them sounding mightily misplaced in the child's cherubic mouth). She wondered if she ought to try consoling the first-year but decided against it, certain that suddenly appearing at his side would not be helpful at this point.

She set off after Malfoy.

~~~*~~~

Malfoy was approaching the central stairwell when Hermione caught up with him. Seeing the stairs moving, she slowed down, expecting Malfoy to do the same, and prepared to give him a piece of her furious mind.

Malfoy, however, didn�t seem inclined to stick around. Picking up his pace, he continued down the moving staircase. After a moment of disbelieving shock, Hermione scrambled after him. The staircase was in mid-swing when Malfoy reached the final step. Glancing down, he jumped off. Hermione hesitated but a second before she too made the leap, unwilling to lose track of her quarry.

Malfoy landed with catlike grace on yet another moving staircase. Hermione touched down silently a few steps behind him. Oblivious of his pursuer, Malfoy jumped onto the railing and slid downwards. His stealthy follower ran down the stairs behind him, cursing mentally. What was that git doing? Trying to kill himself?

Should she give him a push?

Needing no added impetus, Malfoy sailed into the torch-lit emptiness, landing with Errol-like antigrace on the next staircase. Now, it was Malfoy's time to curse.

Whether due to Malfoy's mishap or common sense making a late and inappropriate appearance, Hermione faltered as she dashed down the final steps. The result was a poorly coordinated jump - not one of the leisurely leaps she was accustomed to performing during similar circumstances. Or rather, circumstances vaguely reminiscent of the current Malfoy-instigated madness.

Whatever the reason, Hermione not so much sailed into the torch-lit emptiness as she paddled in a highly disordered and perplexed manner into a stretch of annoyingly empty air.

Survival instinct set in when her conscious mind decided to abandon her to fly off and perch on a reassuringly solid ledge. Sorting out her flailing extremities, Hermione used the foremost two to claw onto the final step of the moving staircase. Her body-abandoning mind watched, in horror, the body it was (if not physically then at least emotionally) attached to, being in danger of quickly becoming rather terminally uninhabitable due to its dangling above a very disagreeable precipice of the bloody near bottomless variety.

This time, Malfoy couldn�t fail to notice her. And should he have turned spontaneously blind, he would have had to turn stone deaf not to notice the penetrating screech that had accompanied her impromptu acrobatics.

He leaned over the edge, peering down at her, eyebrows arched. 'Hel-lo?' He tilted his head to one side. 'Were you following me?'

Reproachful yellow eyes glared up at him. Do something, you utter git!

'Need a hand?'

No, I need a chunk of lead tied to my hind legs so that I'll leave a really BIG red stain. Honestly!

Malfoy stretched out his arm to her.

Finally!

Not about to wait for a formal invitation, Hermione sank her claws into Malfoy's arm, inspiring him to pull her up with greatest expediency � not so much due to any acute anxiety about her safety as his being acutely aware of a pressing need to pry her off his aching arm.

Though somewhat reluctant to let go of the git's arm, Hermione soon found herself in Malfoy's lap with the Slytherin gazing down at her.

'I don't believe we've met, have we? That's� unusual. Crookshanks usually introduces me to all new arrivals�'

Hermione made a mental note to have a serious meow with Crookshanks once she got back to the Gryffindor Tower.

'�especially the ladies.' Malfoy smirked. 'But perhaps he's done you already.'

Make that a very loud Meow.

Malfoy began to absentmindedly stroke Hermione's orange-brown fur, and she found herself, much to the chagrin of her newly returned Conscious Mind, purring and rubbing herself against his torso. Animal instinct told her this was the way to go with simian individuals when hungry (and her stomach and palate did at this point express rather a violent craving for Consolation Eating to calm her frayed nerves).

Of course, Human Hermione would never stoop to such underhanded methods (manipulating Ron using her female charms didn't count) but Cat Hermione would use her feline charms at the drop of a hat. Or, even better, at the drop of a lamb chop.

Professor McGonagall had, at the very start of Hermione's secret Animagus training, tried to explain to her the futility of attempting to suppress fundamental cat instincts, but Hermione had chosen to disbelieve her mentor, insisting on behaving like a responsible human being when in feline form. This decision had had several unfortunate results - one of them being constantly worrying about her apparent nakedness (did short fur really count as proper clothing?).

But eventually, Hermione had embraced her catness, and these days she even enjoyed the occasional raw mouse between meals. On the other hand, it was things like that (the McMouse snack) that made her wonder if her embracing her catness wasn't really more a matter of the catness sinking its vicious claws into Human Hermione, purring happily as it pulled her into the murky depths of feline decadence. However, currently being of a feline disposition, she turned her attention back to the business at paw.

Food.

And Malfoy.

And food.

Possibly a combination. Malfoy optional. Though considering the way he stroked her head, she might be forced to reconsider that last bit.

Pressing into his hands and leaning back, she opened her eyes slowly - until the world came into focus again, at which point her eyes tried run off without her. Malfoy's face was distorted. It was upside down, of course, but beyond that, there was something clearly not right. It wasn't Malfoy. Fighting back an urge to run off in search of the boy (bigoted bastard that he was), she realigned her head to take a proper look at him. He was smiling at her. Not leering. Not smirking. Smiling. And it completely unbalanced her, despite anything people might say about superior cat balance. She felt dizzy. It was a nice smile.

'Care for some food, ladycat?'

The deep rumbling noises rising from her bowels were highly embarrassing. Truthful, but embarrassing.

Expecting no more eloquent answer, Malfoy placed Hermione on the stairs, rose and walked off. Expecting her to follow him. Just like that. How very Malfoy.

Oddly enough, this was strangely reassuring after the shocking smile she�d just witnessed. Feeling reassured and starving, she followed him. Not that it had anything to do with eating, of course. She just wanted to get to the bottom of Malfoy's strange behaviour.

...

Right.

~~~*~~~

One thing Hermione did get to the bottom of was Hogwarts itself. Or to be more precise: the Hogwarts school kitchens.

The kitchen elves seemed unsurprised by Malfoy's late-night visit, quickly meeting his demands for food. Nor did they seem at all surprised by the fact that there was a cat accompanying him. In fact, one of the elves went as far as to comment on there not being more cats. This particular elf was Dobby, old friend of Harry Potter's and former property of the Malfoy estate, and the comment earned him a pointed slap (slaps tend to be rather pointed when the person doing the slapping is handling large kitchen knives) by his wife, Winky. Such things were simply not commented on in front of the masters. It jus' wasn' right. Dobby obediently banged his head on the table, crying Bad Dobby, Bad Dobby; glancing towards Winky to see when she felt he might possibly have humiliated himself enough.

To Hermione's great surprise, it was Malfoy who decided that enough banging was enough banging and, quite frankly, this incessant banging should cease so that he could perhaps have his food served sometime before the next millennium, thank you very much.

Hermione wasn't sure if this should be considered a display of commendable human (even humanitarian, though that boggled the mind) qualities on Malfoy's part, or if it was simply yet another display of what a Big Spoiled Brat he was.

She pondered this as a roasted salmon was placed before her on the table, at which point she ceased pondering and focused on devouring the delicious dead fish before it had any chance whatsoever to be suddenly resurrected and escape her food-deprived existence.

You just never knew what might happen in a place like this. For example, you never knew when one of the slimiest gits on the planet might ask you out (or, rather, down) for dinner, and you actually found yourself accepting his offer.

Even if it was with a meow.

~~~*~~~

Nothing more was said that night. Malfoy (unusually subdued) and Granger (unusually small and furry) ate their food in silence and, some considerable time later, parted ways in the main hall.

Nothing more was said. But the silence carried meaning. Nothing needed to be said. After all, as far as Malfoy knew, Hermione's conversational skills were limited to purring and sounding like a rusty hinge in need of gratuitous oiling.

But unsaid somethings floated around Malfoy's head like fireflies around a bright light at night. His mind seemed filled with so many disturbing thoughts that they flowed over and spread around him like ripples of confusion. Draco Malfoy, who always acted as if he owned the world and could be neither be bothered by or with anyone nor anything, was confused.

Of course, Ron had always claimed that Malfoy was disturbed, but what Hermione witnessed that night (and many nights thereafter) went deeper than surface sliminess and general gittishness. Malfoy had Issues, capital I. He was a mystery and Hermione liked mysteries. Which was not to say she liked Malfoy. After all, she liked solving crosswords but she didn't feel obliged to be nice to them afterwards.

In short, Hermione spent many a night with Draco Malfoy because he fascinated and intrigued her, like a puzzle waiting to get laid. Or - to avoid any lewd connotations - a crossword waiting to be solved.

Besides, he provided snacks.
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Retreat - Act I: Occupation