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Deceptions	By : GypsyRaeyven Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 1779 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Characters, locations and certain plot details of this story are owned by JK Rowling and her respective publishers. I do not own Harry Potter (unfortunately), and I am not making any money from this story.

Chapter List
- 3
- 4
@Unneeded - Apologies for not answering your question until now. Although it might feel like it, there is NO romance happening between Draco and Hermione. This is very much a Drarry story. Things will become clearer with each chapter!

Chapter Four

First Signs Of Trouble

“Minerva, what brings you to my office on this rather cheerful evening?”

“You may call it cheerful, Albus, but I most definitely do not.” Minerva McGonagall closed the door behind her. “Severus,” she said stiffly, acknowledging the presence of the other man in the room. Snape barely nodded at her in response.

Dumbledore sighed at the sudden air of tension that had pervaded the room and returned his quill to its holder. “Is it safe to assume that this has something to do with the matter we discussed before the start of term?”

McGonagall approached the headmaster's desk, eyeing Snape with the same severe expression she reserved for her most troublesome students. “I don't like it one bit.”

Snape glanced sideways at her. “I believe you made that perfectly clear at the time,” he remarked, not bothering to hide his impatience.

“And I wish to make it clear once again,” she replied sharply. “Albus, it isn't right, surely you must see that? Our actions are no better than his; in fact, what we are doing is far worse.”

Snape twitched beside her, but said nothing. Dumbledore leaned forward on his elbows, lacing his fingers together and resting them thoughtfully against his lips as he considered his deputy headmistress. “What has made you draw that conclusion, Minerva, given the decision that we agreed upon? Yourself included, might I add.”

“You have known me for a very long time, Albus. I am always the first to admit when I am wrong, and this is one of those occasions. They are children still, and it is our duty to guide and care for them. Not to manipulate them in the way that we are doing. If we continue with this, we shall be lowering ourselves to his level–”

“This happens to be a war,” Snape cut in scathingly. “Lowering ourselves to the Dark Lord's level may very well protect us from an attack where we are weakest.“

“Something which has happened once already,” Dumbledore added. “Unfortunately, the murder of Harry's aunt was something we could do little about. This time, however, we are in a position to control the situation and should take that opportunity. Do you not agree, Minerva?”

“We are no more in control than he is,” McGonagall responded heatedly. “We are being forced into doing things we would not even entertain at any other time. And yes, Severus, I am fully aware that this is a war. That is not something I needed to be reminded of, thank you very much. But it is no excuse for us to throw away our morals and dance with the Devil. Miss Granger was in my office this morning and it is very obvious that she knows she is being manipulated, yet she is willing to go along with it for the sake of Potter. But she doesn't know the full extent of the situation she has entered into, and she should.”

Snape bestowed a look of contempt upon his colleague. “Naturally, it's only Miss Granger's predicament you are concerned with.”

“What do you expect?” McGonagall snapped, her voice rising as she turned to face him. “She is my student!”

“As is Draco Malfoy, which you appear to have conveniently forgotten.” Snape's black eyes bore into her. “Slytherin or not, he is a pupil at this school and should be afforded the same protection as everyone else, regardless of house loyalties.”

“This is not about something as trivial as house loyalties, Severus!” McGonagall exploded fiercely. “How dare you even suggest such a thing. Draco Malfoy is in an entirely different situation to Hermione Granger.”

“Need I remind you both,” Dumbledore interrupted wearily, “that Draco Malfoy's welfare is the reason why we are doing this in the first place. What he has been tasked with is something quite impossible, and it troubles me.”

“Indeed, Headmaster,” Snape acknowledged, brushing aside McGonagall's outburst. “What concerns me most is that not even I know the Dark Lord's motive in this instance.”

“Quite... Severus, forgive me, but I must ask you again. Are you confident that his trust in you remains intact?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“In which case that only concerns me more. As you are such an important influence in Draco's life, it can only suggest that you are being deliberately sequestered on this matter. The question is why?” Dumbledore rose from his chair and began to pace around his office, deep in thought. “Given what you have already told us of his plans, Severus, I can understand Voldemort's wish to drive a wedge between Harry and Miss Granger. Removing those closest to Harry in his support network would appeal to his perverse sense of humour, not to mention aid him in their own personal battle. And for Draco to be the cause of that wedge would be particularly devastating.

“But Voldemort must know that Draco stands little chance of succeeding. Not only is Miss Granger intelligent enough to see through such a thing, her history with Draco is volatile to say the least. By contrast, her relationship with Harry is perhaps the strongest I have ever personally encountered.” He paused, frowning at the Pensieve cabinet in deliberation. “No... there is more to this than meets the eye. Either Voldemort is privy to something we are not, or it appears he is deliberately setting Draco up to fail. And I want to know why.”

McGonagall exchanged an uneasy glance with Snape. “Well, that doesn't make any sense. If he wishes to damage their friendship, Albus, why would he want Malfoy to fail?”

“That, Minerva, is why I cannot help but feel that I am missing something.”

“Headmaster,” Snape said, drawing the man's attention, “the Malfoys have fallen considerably from the Dark Lord's grace following their ill-fated attempt to obtain the record of the prophecy. It might be that he has chosen to take their punishment out on Draco.”

Dumbledore regarded Snape thoughtfully. “You may very well be correct with that assumption, but I don't believe it to be quite that straightforward. One thing is certain, however; should he fail, there is little doubt in my mind that he will be made an example of. Severus is quite right, Minerva; Draco must be protected.”

“With respect, Albus, Draco Malfoy is far from an innocent in all this. I am not saying he deserves our protection any less, of course not–”

“That is exactly what you are saying,” Snape interrupted venomously.

“Severus, as you have already pointed out, this is a war. I believe our first priority should be with Potter, and as a result, Miss Granger. Not with the son of an active Death Eater. The risk that we are all placing her in by going ahead with this is indefensible.”

Snape's posture grew rigid. “Draco is putting himself in as much, if not more risk than your precious Miss Granger, but of course the foolish boy cannot see it and is therefore in no position to guard against it. It appears he's not the only foolish one.” He gave McGonagall a meaningful glare.

“I'm afraid, Minerva,” Dumbledore broke in, seeing her bristle at Snape's words, “that I'm entirely in agreement with Severus on this. I suspect Draco is the pawn in a game he cannot even hope to win without our help. With Miss Granger unwittingly collaborating with him, it might just buy him – and us – some time.”

“Even then, it may not be enough,” Snape remarked.

Dumbledore nodded at his Potions professor. “We are going to need to steer Draco into treading a very fine line between success and failure.” He glanced at McGonagall. “For which we will need your cooperation, Minerva.”

McGonagall pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, her displeasure evident. “And how long do you foresee this continuing?”

“Until we know for certain what it is Voldemort has in mind for him.” Dumbledore's face softened. “I understand your concerns; indeed, I agree with you. It is a regrettable situation, but one we must look at subjectively. There is more going on with Draco Malfoy than I think any of us are even aware of and I, for one, am not prepared to give up on a boy who has done nothing wrong but be born into a corrupt family. Not whilst there is still a chance for him.”

“You know where I stand on this,” Snape reaffirmed immediately. “Draco is my godson, I intend to do all I can to help him.”

Dumbledore held his gaze for a moment before both men turned to McGonagall. “Miss Granger cannot be made aware of any of this. Our best hope of keeping them both safe lies with each of them believing they are the one in control of the situation. If either of them loses that belief, then– Minerva, I know what you are about to say. Children they may be, but Voldemort does not discriminate on age and neither can we.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. “Minerva?” Dumbledore prompted eventually.

“Very well,” she replied testily. “Against my better judgement, I will go along with what we agreed. But one thing still bothers me. I warned Miss Granger this morning not to underestimate Malfoy, and I am not about to ignore my own advice. In my opinion, you are too quick to assume he will fail. What if he doesn't, Albus?”

“I don't think that is something we need concern ourselves with. Even if the unthinkable happened and Draco actually succeeded in befriending Miss Granger, it would have little bearing on her relationship with Harry. That is where Voldemort has underestimated them.

“Their friendship is much too strong.”

* * *

“Hogwarts, dear? Got the lot here – another young man being fitted up just now, in fact.”

Harry peered into the back of the shop as the witch bustled around him. Stood on a footstool, with a second witch kneeling at his feet, pinning up his long black robes, was a boy of his own age. He had a pale, angular face with a pointed chin and white-blond hair, slicked smoothly back and trimmed neatly at the nape of his neck. He had never seen anyone with hair that colour before, other than those who had acquired it straight from a bottle. It was easily the most striking thing about him.

That was, at least, until he glanced up and his eyes landed on Harry. Harry knew it was rude to stare, especially when the person you were staring at was looking at you, but he couldn't help it. The boy had a quality to his silver eyes that made them glitter even in the shop's dull light, like the sun reflecting off chips of ice. To call them simply grey would be doing them a disservice.

It was only when Madam Malkin cut across between them and beckoned Harry to follow that he tore his own eyes away with a blush, embarrassed by his behaviour. She led him over to the boy, who was gazing down at the witch adjusting the length of his robes, two spots of pink colouring his cheeks. At Madam Malkin's insistence, Harry stepped up onto a footstool next to him and had an identical robe slipped over his head. Madam Malkin immediately set to work with her pins, leaving him standing in awkward silence, searching for something to say.

Finally the boy glanced at him and said, “Hullo, Hogwarts too?”

“Yes,” was all a rather stupidly tongue-tied Harry could manage in reply. Fortunately, the boy saved him from having to make further conversation.

“My father's next door buying my books,” he drawled, sounding decidedly bored as he studied Harry, “and mother's up the street looking at wands. Then I'm going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don't see why first-years can't have their own. I think I'll bully father into getting me one and I'll smuggle it in somehow.”

An unwelcome feeling of déjà vu settled around Harry at the manner in which the boy said this; it reminded him a little too much of the kind of thing Dudley would say, and he couldn't help being disappointed by it.

“Have you got your own broom?”

“No,” he answered.

“Play Quidditch at all?”

Quidditch? What on earth was that? Harry looked up at the boy and caught the faintest glimmer of a challenge in his eyes. “No,” he said again, wondering why it was that he could give nothing more than one word answers.

“I do – Father says it's a crime if I'm not picked to play for my house, and I must say, I agree.”

There it was again, that flash of arrogance. Harry sighed and turned his face away, concentrating on the top of Madam Malkin's head as she busied herself with the hem of his robe.

“Know what house you'll be in yet?”

“No,” he mumbled, convinced the boy thought him as stupid as he felt.

“Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they, but I know I'll be in Slytherin, all our family have been – imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?”

Harry glanced at the boy again. He was still watching him, and as their eyes met the boy suddenly smiled a shy smile. Harry gazed back at him, unsure how to respond. “Mmm,” he replied eventually, wishing he could say something a bit more interesting...

Harry rolled over fitfully in his sleep, disturbing his dream. It shimmered and fragmented, waiting for him to settle back down. When it began to coalesce he was no longer stood on a footstool in Madam Malkin's. Instead, he was sitting in a compartment of the Hogwarts Express, opposite an eleven-year-old Ron who was in full flow, explaining all about the intricacies of Quidditch and the games he had been to see with his brothers.

The door suddenly slid open and Harry looked up, expecting to see Hermione or the boy with the missing toad again. But it was neither. Three boys had entered, and he instantly recognised the middle one. It was the pale-faced boy from Madam Malkin's, with the white-blond hair and the eyes that had made even simple conversation impossible. The same eyes that were now staring at him with undisguised interest.

“Is it true?” the boy asked in the same haughty voice that Harry remembered from their first meeting. “They're saying all down the train that Harry Potter's in this compartment.” He didn't even acknowledge Ron's presence. “So it's you, is it?” he said, his eyes glittering as he stared at Harry.

“Yes,” Harry replied, and the boy had done it again. One look and he was rendered incapable of anything other than yes or no. Annoyed with himself, he turned his attention to the boy's two companions, his eyes narrowing in displeasure at their very presence.

“Oh, this is Crabbe and this is Goyle,” the boy said rather carelessly, noticing where he was looking. “And my name's Malfoy...”

Harry's eyes flickered back to the boy's silver ones.

“...Draco Malfoy,” the boy finished, smiling that same shy smile he had given Harry in Madam Malkin's.

But then, with one cough and a barely-disguised snigger, Ron trampled right over the moment with all the finesse of a rampaging bull.

Draco turned his now steely gaze on Harry's companion for the first time since entering the compartment. “Think my name's funny, do you? No need to ask who you are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles and more children than they can afford.” Giving Ron a disdainful once-over, Draco turned back to Harry. “You'll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there.” And to Harry's surprise, Draco held out his hand.

Harry stared at it in silence. He didn't know why, but something in the back of his mind was telling him this was important. He glanced across at Ron. The redhead shrugged at him, and Harry somehow knew that whatever he did, he couldn't be friends with both boys. Neither of them would allow it; in fact, Draco was outright forcing him to choose.

Common sense was screaming at him that the down-to-earth, funny and extremely likeable Ron Weasley, who he had known all of a few hours, would be a much better friend than someone who was so spoiled and conceited that they put Dudley in the shade. And Ron's family had all been so nice to him, treating him like one of their own instead of the complete stranger that he was. For the first time in his life, he had glimpsed what being part of a loving family might be like and he wasn't ready to let go of that feeling.

But the grin he had been about to direct at Ron froze and died before it had time to form. Scabbers had climbed onto Ron's shoulder and was peering at Harry, his whiskers twitching and his long tail looped around the back of Ron's neck, the tip dangling down over his other shoulder. He frowned at the image; something about it made him feel uneasy, yet he couldn't begin to explain what, or why. It made him so uneasy, in fact, that he dragged his gaze away. Draco was still standing before him, hand outstretched, patiently waiting. Harry's eyes rose to meet his. The shy smile returned, and with it came the answer Harry was looking for. As much as he liked Ron, and hoped that somehow they could still be friends, he couldn't imagine what it would feel like to have this boy with the silver eyes look at him with the same animosity with which he had regarded Ron. He stood slowly, his own rather hesitant smile reflecting Draco's as he reached for his hand...

Harry sat bolt upright in bed, breathing heavily, having been ripped from the dream moments before his hand closed around Draco's. He held that same hand against his chest as he struggled to pull air into his straining lungs. “Gods,” he whispered raggedly, shivering as the bed sheets fell to his waist and the cold air of the dormitory permeated his damp t-shirt, chilling the sheen of sweat covering his body.

Now that the inevitable war was no longer something that would happen 'one day', Harry had found himself thinking more and more about Draco and what could have been. This wasn't the only dream about him that he'd had since term began, but it was by far the most troubling. They had started on the first night, each one broken and in pieces, jumbled almost beyond recognition, reflecting what had happened five years ago in Madam Malkin's and on the Hogwarts Express. Harry had seen for the first time the look of disappointment on Draco's face when he had turned down his offer of friendship, before it was hidden from that moment on behind a sneering mask of hatred.

This latest one, however, was vastly different. It had been clear, vivid. Whole. And it had brought back memories of things he had tried hard to forget. The handshake might have been a lie, but the shy smile and the silver eyes shining at him were as real as the small bespectacled little boy who had found them so mesmerising he couldn't speak. Harry smiled to himself in the darkness. There were times, even now, when Draco made him feel like that eleven-year-old again, awkward and tongue-tied.

He thought back to the Draco he had first met in Madam Malkin's. What he had disliked about him then, for fear of him turning out to be another Dudley, he realised now he wouldn't change. Not in the slightest. He was arrogant, yes. Conceited, spoiled, full of self-importance. But that was Draco Malfoy, and somehow Harry had fallen in love with him regardless.

Two years of sniping at each other, juvenile threats and countless run-ins had followed that initial journey to Hogwarts, meaning Draco was a constant fixture in Harry's life, and by the time third year had started, a constant fixture in his head too. He wasn't even sure when things had changed; it had just happened, a slow, gradual process that he hadn't been aware of until it was much too late. Harry wished he could hate him, if for no other reason than his entire bloody family supported Voldemort. It would make his already complicated life just that little bit simpler if he did. But whilst Draco infuriated him like no one else ever could, especially when the things he said or did placed more barriers between them, Harry couldn't bring himself to feel hatred. Only anger. Anger, and an ever-deepening sense of loss.

Harry sighed heavily, knowing he should force his thoughts away from that particular minefield. One day he would have to face his feelings head on, but for now it was far too distracting, and therefore dangerous. The dream, however, hadn't only left him with reawakened memories, but something much more real and tangible. He pressed the heel of his hand into his groin and couldn't help the groan that it elicited.

Harry froze in shock. Someone – Neville, he thought – muttered in their sleep in one of the other beds and he held his breath, fearing he had been heard. But no one else stirred in the silence and Harry, satisfied that he had gotten away with his moment of indiscretion, tried desperately to lose his arousal, pulling every less than desirable image he could muster into his head and very nearly succeeding but for his traitorous mind, which decided to feed him an image of Draco in the library that afternoon, sucking on a sugar quill whilst he studied with Blaise and Pansy. Sod it, he thought, digging under his pillow for his wand. He muttered a hasty silencing spell, threw his wand down and sighed in relief as his fingers pushed inside his pyjama bottoms and made contact.

But the relief was short-lived. Each stroke seemed to bring nothing but frustration, and the harder and faster he worked his fist, the more dissatisfied he felt. He bit down hard on his lower lip and willed his body to respond, but he knew by now it was useless. Harry swore under his breath, knowing there was no other option. He closed his eyes and fell back onto his bed, surrendering to the only thing that ever brought him to completion. His head filled with silky blond hair trailing down his body as soft lips pressed a meandering line of kisses from his chest, across his stomach and downwards. Pale hands tugged at his pyjamas and Harry raised his hips, his own hands being guided by the ones in his mind. Silver eyes lifted to meet his, a hint of a smirk in their depths, and suddenly his own fingers became longer, thinner, wrapping around him firmly, determined not to be dragged away. The blond hair dipped and splayed out over his abdomen, and as Harry's thumb swept over the leaking head of his erection, so a warm wet tongue did likewise.

“Gods...” Harry murmured, thrusting into his fist as the tongue gave way to an eager mouth which slid down over his entire length in one smooth movement, blond hair pressing into the coarse dark hair at its base. Harry arched his back off the bed, tipping his head back into his pillow, giving himself over to his frighteningly vivid imagination. And when he came moments later, hard and desperate, Draco's name fell from his lips in a ragged breath, safe in the knowledge that no one would hear.

* * *

“So, have you decided who you're going with yet?”

Hermione had promised herself that the next person to ask her that question would find themselves hexed in two hundred and fifty-six wild and wonderful ways. The fact that it was Ron doing the asking this time was possibly the only thing that stopped her. She gritted her teeth and turned to him.

It was Tuesday evening and the pair were huddled together in the Quidditch stands, shivering in the rough wind that had blown up out of nowhere. The Gryffindor team had just finished their first training session, to which Ron had insisted on dragging her along. He no longer played as their keeper; he had relinquished that position after last term, when a few chance saves had helped Gryffindor claim victory over Ravenclaw and lift the Quidditch cup. Having basked in the adulation for a number of weeks, he had decided it would be better to go out on a high rather than push his new-found luck too far.

“Let me assure you, Ron, that when I do find a partner you and Harry will be the first to know.”

Ron cast her a sidelong glance. “What about Harry?”

“What about him?”

“Why not go with him?”

Hermione sighed impatiently. “You know why. Cho's already asked him.”

“Yes, but apparently she changed her mind,” Ron persisted. “She's going with Michael Corner now.”

Hermione's eyes flew to Harry, who put his hand up to acknowledge her as he sailed past on his broomstick. “When did this happen?”

“Last night, while you were at your committee meeting. Didn't he tell you?”

She shook her head, a frown settling over her brow as she watched Harry circling leisurely in the air. He said something to Katie Bell, one of Gryffindor's chasers, and the two of them laughed together. He certainly didn't seem too upset by it. Maybe she should ask him to be her partner; at least that way they would both have a good time, without the added pressure of dates.

But as Harry flew from her immediate vision, her eyes focused on the stand on the other side of the pitch and the Winter's Ball was immediately forgotten. The Slytherin team were lounging around, seemingly oblivious to the increasingly rough weather. Draco Malfoy's blond head stood out starkly against the shadowed seats. As she watched, he stood, exchanged a few pleasantries with his team mates, then walked away.

She peered down at her watch and her stomach sank. It was close to the time that she had reluctantly agreed upon this morning to meet for their first rehearsal. She had not been looking forward to this.

“...sure he had his reasons,” Ron was saying to her.

“Reasons for what?” she mumbled, her eyes flicking back to Draco.

“Not telling you.”

“Who?”

Ron gave her a strange look. “Harry?”

“Oh right...” she muttered, not entirely sure what he meant.

Ron followed her gaze to where the Slytherin seeker was disappearing from view down the steps. He grimaced sympathetically. “Can't you get out of it?”

Hermione grunted. “I wish I could, but I can't.”

“Why not?” Ron asked, as they stood and began making their own way from the stands.

Hermione wrapped her scarf tightly around her neck and proceeded to explain the real reason behind herself and Draco being placed on the Winter's Ball Committee. “This is strictly between us,” she added. “I don't even want Harry to know; he has enough to worry about.”

Ron nodded in compliance. “That's not very fair on you, though,” he said, “forcing you to spend time with that arrogant scrawny-arsed hedge-pig just to keep him out of the way.”

“Ron!” Hermione admonished, biting back the laugh that threatened to escape.

He shrugged. “I thought it summed him up perfectly.”

Hermione grinned wryly and shook her head, but her face quickly grew serious again. “Maybe it isn't fair,” she continued, “ but this isn't about me. Think about Harry, how fair is all this on him? All the hard work he's putting in, just for the pleasure of facing Voldemort again.”

Ron fell silent at the truth of her words.

Her tone softened. “I'll do anything I can to help him. No matter what. I'm determined that Malfoy won't have a clue what's going on right under his nose.”

“I wish there was something I could do,” Ron said quietly, staring down at his feet.

Hermione turned to face him, walking backwards, her hair whipping across her face. “There is. Keep a really close eye on him. The Time Turner isn't as simple as Harry made out. When I used it for a prolonged period, I started to feel like my mind wasn't my own.”

Ron's brow wrinkled in confusion; he couldn't recall her mentioning that before. “How do you mean?”

She shrugged. “I don't know, it's difficult to explain. It seemed like feelings and emotions were exaggerated... magnified to a disproportionate level.”

Ron thought back to the incident in Divination in their third year, when Hermione had been using the Time Turner, and her uncharacteristic behaviour towards Sybill Trelawney suddenly made sense. “Okay, I'll do that.”

“And make sure he gets a good night's sleep every night. That's really important or his whole body clock will be all over the place.”

“Sure, Hermione,” Ron retorted, sarcastically. “I'll sit on the end of his bed and watch him all night. I'm sure he'll sleep peacefully knowing that.”

Hermione rolled her eyes in exasperation, to which Ron responded with a sudden lopsided grin. “I'll do what I can,” he assured her.

She returned his grin with a smile and grabbed his arm, planting a small kiss on his cheek. “I know you will,” she whispered in his ear. Her smile widened when she saw the blush she'd caused. “Anyway, I'd better get going. I'll see you later!” she called over her shoulder as she walked away.

* * *

“You're late.”

Hermione had peeked into the Transfiguration classroom before entering and thought it to be empty, so the voice that emerged from behind the door as she pushed it open almost made her jump out of her skin. She whipped around and came face to face with a laughing Draco Malfoy. “Hanging about in dark corners, Malfoy?” she countered, scowling at his reaction. “Isn't that just your style.”

“What would you know, Granger?” he drawled, his eyes flickering over her. He sneered at her unkempt appearance. “Do they not have combs in the Muggle world?”

Her hands instantly flew to her windswept hair. It had always been a sore spot with her and he made a point of exploiting the fact whenever he could, knowing it was guaranteed to get a rise out of her. But not this time. With great effort, she forced her hands back down. “When you're ready to start,” she declared curtly, “perhaps you could let me know...”

Draco watched her march over to a nearby desk, a sly smile spreading across his face. Oh, don't worry, he thought, I'll let you know. Slipping his wand from his sleeve, he muttered, “Amoveo.”

Hermione hit the floor with a shocked gasp as all the desks and stools – including the one she had been about to sit on – suddenly picked themselves up and flew to the edges of the room. “You bloody git!” she spat, staring up at Draco as he found reason to laugh at her expense for the second time in as many minutes.

He raised a mocking eyebrow. “Language, Granger. Your vocabulary leaves a lot to be desired.”

She glared daggers at him. “Oh, believe me, Malfoy, keep this up and you may just be surprised!”

His eyes glittered in response. “That sounds like an offer too good to refuse.”

Childish though it was, her first instinct was to pull a face at him.

He sauntered over to her, rolling his eyes. “You've been spending too much time with the weasel, you're starting to look like him as well as sound like him.” He grinned down at her. “A little bit of time spent in more refined company is exactly what you need.”

“What on earth am I doing here with you, then?” she seethed in reply.

He chose to ignore that, holding out his hand instead. Hermione lifted her chin and got to her feet by herself, pointedly snubbing his offer of assistance. “Let's just get on with this, Malfoy. Neither of us particularly wants to be here.”

Shrugging out of his tailored jacket, Draco chuckled. “Now who's the eager beaver, Granger?” he taunted.

Ten weeks, she thought to herself as she watched him turn away and drape his jacket carefully over the back of Professor McGonagall's chair. How in Merlin's name was she going to get through this without hexing him into the next millennium? And if she didn't break first, it would only be a matter of time before he did. Still, there was no getting out of it.

To make matters worse, it appeared that McGonagall wasn't the only teacher with ulterior motives at work where she and Draco were concerned. In Divination yesterday morning, she and Draco had been pushed into working together once again, and the same thing had happened in Charms immediately after – something which didn't go unnoticed by very many people. Harry had been especially irritated by it, particularly as it had left him with no alternative but to work with Pansy Parkinson.

When Snape, no less, had then insisted she work with Draco in yesterday afternoon's Potions lesson, Hermione no longer had any doubts that there was more to this than what she had been told. None of the teachers were being at all subtle in what they were doing, which given what McGonagall had said didn't make much sense.

Worst of all, however, worse even than the Potions lesson spent under the unnerving scrutiny of Snape, was the Astronomy lesson that same night. A midnight class, held in the cramped room at the top of Astronomy Tower, during which the entire time had been devoted to gazing at stars together. No, that was definitely the worst. And if one more person made a remark to her and Draco about unexplored rings she would quite likely push that person off the top of said Astronomy Tower. Of course, it hadn't helped matters when in the middle of a particularly quiet moment, Draco bloody Malfoy had leaned away from his telescope and declared lazily, “Hey, Granger, I think I've found Uranus.” The entire class had erupted into laughter and Hermione, acutely aware of his hand resting behind her on her seat, had been fervently grateful for the low light in the room which hid her blazing cheeks. It was small consolation that his quip had earned him a week of detentions.

She suddenly felt quite self-conscious as he turned to face her again, bringing her attention back to the here and now. Folding her arms defensively, she tried to ignore the way his cool eyes were studying her and focused on what he was saying instead.

“I take it from that display after Sunday's meeting that you don't know how to dance?”

She gritted her teeth. “I've never learned.”

He smirked at her. “And there we were, thinking Gryffindor's golden student knew everything from the mating habits of a puffskein, to the size of Snape's–”

“Malfoy...” she interrupted in a warning tone.

He grinned at her in the most infuriatingly smug manner imaginable, but wisely chose not to finish that sentence.

“And you do know how to dance?” she scoffed, trying to remember back to the Yule Ball. Her attention at the time, however, had been very much focused on Viktor Krum, not Draco.

“Of course,” he proclaimed. “The Malfoys are a highly influential family; people insist that we attend the most important social occasions. It wouldn't do to have the sole heir stumbling around the dance floor like some three-legged imbecile with no sense of timing or rhythm.” He grinned meaningfully.

“And what sort of career do you ever hope to achieve by knowing how to dance?” she mocked. “At least what I know will prove useful in the future.”

His whole demeanour suddenly changed with that question, his face tightening, his eyes staring right through her to a different time and place. His voice, when he spoke, was distant. “I won't need a career when I'm older, Granger... I already have my future planned for me.”

Hermione felt a shiver run down her spine at the emotionless words and the detached gaze which accompanied them. He surely wasn't referring to... well, what she thought he was referring to?

But in the blink of an eye, the moment was over. The smug expression slipped back into place. “My family are so rich, I won't need to work.”

It was so easy while they were here at Hogwarts, surrounded by people her own age, people she had grown up with, to forget that there were potential Death Eaters among them. People that one day she might have to face in the second war, a day which seemed nearer than ever now. Hermione examined Draco's pale unblemished skin, framed by his golden hair that at this moment fell across his shadowed eyes in a disconcertingly attractive way. If the time came, would she be able to look into that same face...

And kill him?

“What?”

She jumped at his question, and it took a moment before she realised she had been staring at him. “Nothing,” she mumbled.

“Well can you at least try to look like you're paying attention? Like I said, I'm not having your ineptitude showing me up at this bloody dance.”

“I'm listening.”

“Good. So,” he continued, “do you know anything at all about the waltz?”

“Yes,” she replied, and proceeded to quote a book she had discovered in the Muggle Literature section of the library. “It began as a peasant dance, originating in Vienna and spreading into Germany where its name means 'to turn'. It was initially banned in England during the early 19th century due to–”

“Wonderful, Granger,” Draco interrupted. “That's really going to help.”

She smiled back serenely. “Well, you did ask.”

“What I meant was do you know anything about the dance itself, or am I going to have to teach you the whole damned thing from scratch?” The impatience in his voice was starting to become apparent.

“I know it's danced in a ¾ time.”

“I suppose that's a start.” He looked at her expectantly.

“That's it.”

He rolled his eyes. “Scratch it is then. Come over here.”

Hermione looked at him in exaggerated surprise. “What? You aren't going to chase me around the room again?” she asked sarcastically as she approached him.

“Enjoy that did you, Granger?” he leered. “Well, who knows, I may indulge your little fantasy again at some point.”

Hermione scowled at him. “I wouldn't if I were you, unless you have a desire to become reacquainted with your ferret form.”

He held out his left hand. When Hermione made no move, he sighed irritably. “Hand, Granger.”

Grudgingly, she placed her right hand in his palm.

His fingers closed tightly around hers. “Now, your other hand needs to be just below my shoulder, fingers around the back, thumb at the front.”

She cast him a derogatory look as she was forced to step closer. “You're stating the obvious, Malfoy.”

“Just working at the level of my student,” he said smoothly.

Hermione pressed her lips together into a thin line. She had wondered how long it would take before he made a gibe about the fact that he was teaching her something.

“No, you need to be closer than that.” She had managed to manoeuvre into his arms without any other contact but now he pulled her closer, a little to his right, which brought half of her body into contact with his. She tensed instantly, something which didn't go unnoticed by her partner. He laughed. “Fucking hell, Granger, it's common knowledge that you're as frigid as a hailstone in the Arctic, but isn't that taking it a little too far?”

As he had her favoured hand in a tight grip, and the other wouldn't have dealt a slap hard enough for her liking, Hermione did the next best thing and gave him a sharp kick on the leg.

Draco swore loudly, his eyes squeezing shut as the pain shot through him. Grasping her roughly by the shoulders, he shook her. “Do you have a fucking death wish or something?”

“Just be grateful that wasn't my knee somewhere else!” she retorted. “You wouldn't have been able to dance your blasted waltz for the next ten years, never mind at the ball!”

“And which 'somewhere else' would that have been?” Draco asked, a wicked glint in his eye nonetheless.

“Where do you think?” she snapped.

“That wouldn't have been wise, not with our wedding night approaching...”

Hermione tried to pull free of him but he had no intention of letting her go. “Enough with the bloody wedding barbs, Malfoy!” she hissed. “If I hear one more, I promise you a life term in Azkaban will be more than worth the consequences.”

Draco's chuckle died suddenly, his eyes wandering over her face. She glared back at him, growing increasingly uneasy at the silence. Then, abruptly, he straightened and pulled her back into the waltz position. “Okay, you have to step back with your right foot.”

Hermione looked down, grateful for something else to focus on. She took a faltering step backwards, Draco's left foot following hers.

“And your other foot goes slightly back and to the left.” He nodded, watching closely. “Yes, that's right. Now that, Granger, is a basic waltz step. Keep going...” They repeated the step several more times. “Okay, this time we're going to turn to the left.”

Within half an hour, Hermione was managing a pretty passable execution of a waltz and her confidence was growing. But as she started to relax into the flowing movement, she suddenly became aware of Draco's close proximity. With each step they took, his inner leg brushed against hers, and the turns they were now taking were bringing their lower bodies into fleeting contact. With the slightest of movements, she straightened the arm of the hand he was holding, enabling her to place more distance between themselves. Her steps started becoming more and more exaggerated, until there was so much space between them that Hagrid could have squeezed through and joined in.

Eventually, Draco pushed her away in exasperation. She staggered backwards in surprise. “What was that for?” she demanded, when she had regained her balance.

“Granger, how the hell do you expect us to dance together at this ball if you're on one side of the Great Hall and I'm on the other?”

She flushed. “We don't need to dance that closely though.”

He grinned at her and she immediately bristled. “I know what you're up to, Malfoy.”

“Do you?” he leered. “What's that?”

“More of your silly, immature games. And I refuse to be a part of them.”

His grin widened. “Oh, come on, Granger. You know you enjoy it. Anyway,” he continued, before she had time to reply, “the dance is actually danced closer than that. I was going easy on you.”

“Yes, of course you were! And you're always so considerate aren't you?” She laughed in his face. “I doubt you even understand the meaning of the word, especially with Lucius Malfoy for a father!”

A horrible silence descended, and Hermione sensed that she had touched a raw nerve. Draco idolised his father way too much to be able to brush that off.

“Oh, I can assure you, Granger,” he said in a carefully controlled, very calm voice, “I won't make the mistake of going easy on you next time.” They glared at each other for a moment, and then Hermione was left staring at his back as he turned and stalked from the room.

* * *

“There you are!” Hermione dropped a small pile of books onto the table beside Harry and slid into the seat beside him. “I've been searching everywhere for you.”

Harry gave her a quick glance before throwing his quill down and leaning back in his chair with a sigh. “Where else did you expect to find me on a Wednesday evening?” he asked somewhat ironically, gesturing at the half-finished Potions essay laid out in front of him.

“Not in the library,” she replied with a smile. “This has to be a first for you.”

“First time for everything, I guess.” Harry stretched the knotted muscles in his shoulders with a wince. “What did you want?”

“Hmm?”

“You said you were looking for me?”

“Oh, yes. That. It's about the ball.”

Harry pulled a face. “Whatever you're going to say, don't bother. It's irrelevant to me, since I won't be going.”

“Why not?”

Harry looked at her incredulously. “Aside from the fact that I have more important things to be doing with my time than wasting it on some stupid fancy dress ball? Sorry,” he added as an afterthought.

Hermione waved a hand dismissively. “No need to apologise, Harry.”

“I just don't fancy making a prat of myself again. The Yule Ball was bad enough. Having to get dressed up in some ridiculous outfit as well..? No thanks.”

Hermione grimaced. “I can assure you, I'm not to blame for that.”

“I never said you were.”

“For what it's worth,” she said, pulling a book towards her and flicking through it idly, “I think it's a ludicrous idea. Unfortunately, I was outvoted due to some blonde airhead's ability to charm the pants off her boyfriend.”

Harry regarded Hermione in amusement. “The Ravenclaw seventh-year?”

Hermione nodded. “Celestine Balfour,” she said in her poshest voice, then wrinkled her nose. “It was her idea, although the way Malfoy jumped on the bandwagon you could have been forgiven for thinking he came up with it. He seemed more keen on it than she did.”

Harry leaned his forearms on the table and poked at his discarded quill, pushing it around with his finger. “Really?”

Hermione looked up from her book. Although he appeared indifferent, there had been a spark of interest underlying the question. She turned in her seat to face him, one elbow resting on the table, the other on the back of her chair. “What's the real reason you don't want to go? Is it because of Cho?”

Harry continued to push the quill around without answering.

“Ron mentioned that she's asked someone else now,” Hermione pressed.

“Ron has a big mouth,” Harry replied forcefully. His hand stilled suddenly, then pushed the quill away, out of his reach. “I didn't mean that,” he said quietly.

“I know.” He looked so wretched as he slumped back in his chair that Hermione reached for his hand and clasped it between hers, stroking the back of it with her thumb in a soothing gesture. “What's really troubling you, Harry? Is it something to do with the prophecy?”

Harry shook his head, a little too quickly to be anything other than suspicious.

“I don't believe you,” Hermione stated simply.

“Well, not exactly,” he amended. “It would be stupid of me to pretend it's not bothering me. But it's more than that, you know? It's everything that's been happening lately. Sirius, my aunt. The Burrow. I suppose it's all been a bit too much.”

Hermione nodded sympathetically. “And the Time Turner won't be helping matters.”

“It isn't,” Harry admitted. “It's only been a week and already I feel like I'm all over the place. Emotionally, mentally, physically...”

“Which is precisely why I think the ball would be good for you. One night of fun, a chance to forget about everything for a few hours. Trust me, I know what I'm talking about.”

Harry glanced sideways at her. “Is there any use in me saying no?”

“No.”

“I don't know, Hermione, that sort of thing isn't really... me.”

“Would it help if I told you it's a costume ball, not fancy dress?”

“Is there a difference?”

“Costume balls are slightly more... refined.”

Harry grinned at her. “At Hogwarts? Good luck with that.”

Encouraged by his sudden upturn in mood, Hermione pushed her advantage. “What if I asked you to be my partner, would that change your mind?”

Harry frowned. “Me?”

“Yes. That's why I was looking for you, to ask you.”

“But what about Malfoy? I thought you were going with him?”

“Merlin, no! That might have been the intention, but I put my foot down and refused. McGonagall relented and said I could choose whoever I wanted.”

“And I'm the best of what's left?” Harry asked petulantly. His face, however, had broken out into the first genuine smile she had seen for weeks.

“Well, there was Zacharias Smith... And I suppose you could count Crabbe and Goyle too, although they weren't really options. Oh, and– Hey!” Hermione was cut off mid-sentence by Harry's potions essay thwacking her over the head.

“You asked for that,” Harry grinned.

Hermione smiled. “To be honest, there's no one else I would rather go with,” she said softly. “So, I suppose I should be thanking Cho for freeing up my date...” She gazed hopefully at Harry.

Harry chuckled at the expression on her face. “Actually, it's me you need to thank. I was the one who told Cho I wouldn't be going with her, not the other way round.”

“Does that mean..?”

Harry flung his hands up in surrender. “Yes, okay. I'll go with you. But,” he added as Hermione leaned across to hug him, “on one condition. I'm not wearing anything that involves a lacy shirt or tight trousers.”

Hermione fell back into her seat. “What about a kilt?” she joked, and the pair of them collapsed into laughter.

On the other side of the library, concealed behind a row of books, Draco watched with narrowed eyes as the two embraced. His fingers curled into tight fists at his side, so tight that his nails dug into his palms.

“They look very cosy,” Blaise commented wryly over his shoulder as Madam Pince marched across to the two Gryffindors and appeared to tell them off for making too much noise.

“Go away,” Draco muttered.

“Actually, I was here first. But seriously, Draco, do you have any idea what you're getting into?”

“And what would you suggest I do?” Draco scoffed. “Go back to him, tell him I won't do it and throw myself at his mercy? If you can't see the flaw in that, then Potter isn't the only one around here that requires glasses.”

“You know what I think you should do,” Blaise responded. “I've said it enough times. Get out now, while you still can. Put some distance between yourself and all that crap.”

“What, like you have?” Draco turned away from Harry and Hermione long enough to sneer at his friend. ”You happen to have one luxury I don't. Absent parents. Tell me, what number husband is your mother on now?”

Blaise shrugged. “Eight? Nine? That's beside the point, though.”

“No it isn't. That is the point. Your mother couldn't care less. Consider yourself fortunate.”

“I'll bear that in mind.”

Draco shook his head as Hermione stood and gathered her books. “If my father even knew we were having this conversation...”

“Then distance yourself from your family too, if you must.”

Draco turned the full force of his glacial stare onto Blaise. “And do what, exactly? Throw myself at Dumbledore's mercy instead? That's almost as ridiculous as your last suggestion.”

“Almost, but not quite. Doesn't that tell you something?”

“Yes. That you're out of your mind.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why am I out of my mind?”

Draco sighed wearily. “Because it's too late for that. Much too late. Now get lost, Zabini, I don't want to discuss it any further.”

“It's never too late, Draco.”

“Oh, for fuck's sake. I told you to fuck off, so fucking go.”

“Strictly speaking, you didn't. But I can take a hint,” Blaise added as Draco glared at him. “Just remember, you can count on me whatever you do.” He glanced a final time at the object of Draco's attention. “You're playing with fire though, and it's you who will end up getting burned. Not to mention hurt.”

Draco growled in frustration but Blaise was already strolling for the doors. He watched as Hermione reached them at the same time and Blaise stepped back with a grin, waving her through with a grand sweeping gesture. Throw himself on Dumbledore's mercy. Draco almost laughed out loud at the notion. His eyes returned to Harry as the boy stared blankly ahead of him. That was never going to happen, he thought bitterly. Never.

* * *

Hermione seriously considered not showing up for rehearsal later that evening.

During their Ancient Runes class that morning, Draco had informed her of Slytherin's decision to reschedule their Quidditch practise for that night, but how he fully expected her to be waiting in the Transfiguration classroom for him afterwards.

Her response had been to surreptitiously charm his bag, so that at frequent intervals during the day the flap would spring open like a mouth and demand of the nearest person if there had ever been a more arrogant git than Draco Malfoy. He had eventually left it in his dormitory when a Hufflepuff seventh-year declared that the only person he could think of who came close was Gilderoy Lockheart.

What changed Hermione's mind, though, was seeing Harry huddled up in a corner of the Gryffindor common room, poring over his Transfiguration and Charms essays. With a heavy sigh, she had veered away from the comfy armchair by the fire and slowly made her way through the corridors to McGonagall's classroom. She wasn't going to let him down.

So here she was, staring out of a window into the dark night, waiting for Draco to show up. She had just been able to make out the Slytherin team returning from the Quidditch pitch some twenty minutes ago, amid a ferocious thunderstorm; he should easily have been here by now. She turned away and leaned against the window sill, tapping her foot impatiently on the floor.

It turned out to be another fifteen minutes before the door finally opened.

“About bloody time, Malfoy!” Hermione was far from happy. She was in the process of gearing herself up to give him an ear bashing he would never forget when she noticed that the person who had entered wasn't actually him. She groaned in frustration. “What do you want?”

“I think the words you are looking for are, 'Hello, Blaise, how are you this evening?'”

“Hello, Blaise,” Hermione echoed. “And goodbye, Blaise. You know where the door is.”

Blaise stared at her in mock disbelief. “Your manners are appalling, Granger.”

“Drop it, Zabini. If you have something to say, then say it.”

“Fine. Message from lover boy – he's going to be late.”

Hermione scowled at his choice of words. “He's already late.”

“Yeah, well he's going to be more late.”

“Wonderful.” Hermione pushed away from the sill and snatched up her discarded sweatshirt.

“That's the bad news,” Blaise continued.

“Really? It sounded like good news to me.”

“Oh, well in that case you're going to love the good news.”

Hermione stopped and eyed Blaise suspiciously. “Why? What is the 'good' news?”

“Draco's asked me to take his place for half an hour or so.”

“What?”

“I'm to keep you entertained until he gets here. And,” he added, retreating to the door as Hermione scoffed at him and made a beeline for it, “I'm to make sure you wait.”

“I don't think so, Zabini. I'm not sitting around at his beck and call, and certainly not with you.” She reached behind him for the handle but he grabbed hold of her wrist, preventing her from leaving. “I wouldn't if I were you, Granger. Draco's not in the best of moods. His broomstick was hit by a bludger and it came off a lot worse than the bludger did.”

“So?”

Blaise grinned malevolently. “So he's out for blood, and yours would do perfectly.”

Hermione paused briefly to consider his words. The threat didn't worry her, but having already annoyed Draco that week, she didn't think it would be wise to push her luck any further. The situation was difficult enough as it was. She snatched her hand free and wheeled back into the room. “Fine, he has ten minutes maximum. If he's not here by then, he can stick what's left of his broomstick where the sun doesn't shine for all I care.” Blaise chuckled to himself and Hermione turned on him. “Is there something you find funny?”

He grinned again and held out his hand. “You have spirit, I'll give you that.”

Hermione eyed him warily.

“It's my job to keep you entertained,” he said with a shrug. “Draco's not the only Slytherin who can dance, you know.”

Hermione laughed shortly. “If you think I'm going to dance with you, you can think again. I'm only dancing with Malfoy because I have to.”

“Come on, Granger, you might learn something. Draco said something about you being... what was it... oh yeah. Frigid. I'll help you warm up for him.” He grinned wickedly at the shocked expression on her face and as she raised her hand to slap him, he grabbed her wrist again and muttered, “Camena Animus.”

Hermione's last fully cohesive thought before the spell took over was that when she saw Draco Malfoy, he was going to wish he had been struck unconscious by the same bludger that wrecked his broomstick. But then a fast-paced rhythmic beat began to reverberate around the room, and all thought of Draco was forgotten. She glanced nervously at the door. McGonagall's office was just down the corridor; she was going to have a fit!

As if he understood the expression on her face, Blaise laughed. “Relax, Granger, no one else can hear it.” He stepped closer. “Give me your hands.”

Despite the sheer volume of noise in her head, his voice was loud and clear. Hermione placed her hands in his without a moment's hesitation.

“Now, listen to the music. Feel its power; the rise and fall when you breathe, the ebb and flow in your veins.” He accentuated his words with gentle squeezes of her fingers.

Hermione had no idea what he was going on about, but it didn't really matter as she suddenly found herself captivated by the rich, hypnotic tones of his voice.

“Can you feel it?” he asked, struggling to keep a straight face.

“Mmm,” she replied vaguely.

“Close your eyes,” he murmured. “That's it... Just let yourself go.”

And then she did feel it. What he was trying so ineptly to explain. The music slammed into her with a strength that almost took her legs out from beneath her. It washed over her as a tidal wave sweeps down onto a beach, dragging her out to its remote expanses, small and helpless in its enormity.

As she fought needlessly to breathe, Blaise's arms slipped around her waist, drawing her into him. Instinctively her arms reached around his neck. Had she been fully aware of her actions, she would have been horrified to know she was clinging to him like he was the sole thing keeping her alive. But she didn't care. She was buzzing with something she had never experienced before in her life, and she was giving herself up to it completely.

She felt herself moving, swaying in time with Blaise until her confidence grew and then, without warning, he whipped her around, spinning her, handling her with the consummate ease of a natural dancer. She gasped when he leaned her over backwards, so low that her tousled hair brushed the floor. And cried out as, with a quick adjustment, he let go of her and swiftly grabbed her hands, pulling her up before she could fall.

Then she was in his arms again, his left hand holding her palm over his chest, his free arm sliding around her hips and encouraging her closer. Every step he took she was following without fault, yet she wasn't even thinking about them, just going where it felt right.

“See what you can do when you let yourself?” he whispered.

She smiled in elation but her reply was lost as he span her away from him.

* * *

Blaise stepped aside with a wink as Draco moved in. “Told you it would work.”

Draco grunted in reply.

“She's all yours,” Blaise continued. “Don't do anything I wouldn't do.”

“You're not giving me very many boundaries, Blaise,” Draco replied bluntly.

“Point taken.” Blaise grinned. “Remember, keep the detachment charm up or it won't just be her you end up making a fool of.”

“Yeah, yeah, you've already told me that countless times. Now get lost.”

Blaise slipped out the door, still grinning inanely.

Draco moved swiftly to catch Hermione's wrist as she stumbled out of her wild spins across the classroom floor, giggling incessantly like a little girl tasting her first drop of alcohol.

The moment Blaise left the room, the music died away. Hermione's giggles subsided with it and confusion bloomed in her eyes. “Wha-?” she began. But Draco swiftly muttered his own enchantment.

Camena Animus, or Song of the Soul. He smiled grimly. Trust Blaise to be into this kind of New Age Magic crap.

As soon as the words had been spoken, the music picked up again. Gone was the rhythmic pulse, much to Draco's relief. But in its place was something slightly more disconcerting. A slow, enveloping harmony seeped into his head and he very nearly gaped. He understood enough about the spell from what Blaise had told him to know that each time it was cast, it attuned itself to the person that had cast it and the situation they were in. When it was cast on two people at the same time, as he had just done, it attuned according to the caster's reaction towards their companion. Being Hermione Granger, he hadn't expected the spell to work at all, or in the very least produce something reminiscent of a mandrake's screeching, with hopefully the same effect. He had been really looking forward to seeing that. But this..?

His eyes wandered to the girl swaying at the end of his arm. Her eyes were closed; the enchantment had already captured her. He couldn't explain how, but she looked different. Sure, it was the same bushy hair, but this hair was dampened with the sweat created by Blaise's energetic pace. Tiny strands clung to her pink cheeks, the rest tumbling past her shoulders in loose waves. Her t-shirt stuck to her clammy body, just beneath the gentle swell of her breasts, revealing the faintest flash of white skin above the waistband of her black sweat pants.

He couldn't remember ever seeing her like this before.

That thought jerked him back to reality. Of course, this was all due to the bloody spell. He silently cursed Blaise for not warning him of the other effects it would have, vowing to make him pay for the discrepancy. But then another thought occurred to him. Would it make Hermione see him any differently too? A roguish smile curved his lips. He had promised her he wouldn't go easy... This could be poetic justice for what she had said about his father.

He allowed the control he had been holding over the enchantment to slip a little, whilst maintaining the detachment that Blaise had taught him. The music filling his mind swelled in a gentle rise and fall, and Hermione swayed with it. He smiled again and pulled her inexorably into his arms. He had, after all, set this up for a purpose... to ease her past her fear of being within even five feet of a male body that didn't belong to Harry Potter or his weasel pet. The smile grew. He may as well put it to the test.

She yielded instantly to his embrace. That was a good start. He looped her arms around his neck, not that she needed much encouragement. And when his own hands slipped around her slender waist, she bumped her hips against his tentatively. He almost let his control of everything slip at that innocuous little movement. He knew full well it was nothing more than a response to the melody surging through her, which was more than okay with him. But even so... He hoped he would at least be able to hold on to his detachment charm. Otherwise things could get out of hand.

And then he grinned maliciously. So what if he couldn't? Or more precisely didn't? No one was around. He could let it go as far as he wanted. And then enjoy seeing the look on her face afterwards when she remembered exactly what kind of dancing they'd been practising. He pondered this as he turned her with him in a slow circle. Maybe it would work to his advantage in more ways than one... He couldn't help the low rumble of laughter that escaped. Hermione giggled against his chest in response, blissfully unaware of how much events were going to turn with the disappearing remnants of a simple detachment charm.

* * *

She knew full well whose arms she was in. She had seen him watching through the door as Blaise swung her around. Had seen him enter just as Blaise released her and disappeared. She could hear loud and clear the voice screaming in her head, competing valiantly with the intoxicating, heady melody. She didn't need it to tell her that this was wrong. That the way he was holding her went against everything he believed in, irrespective of the fact that they were only dancing. That the way she was sinking into him was something she would never have done, even under a compulsion spell.

Whenever these realisations threatened to surface and tear her from this surreal state, the music would wash over her, pulling her back into its overwhelming depths, a little further each time, her grasp on reality moving further from her reach. This was like the aftermath of the tidal wave. As if it had ebbed away, leaving her to drown, being pulled under by the strength of Draco Malfoy's embrace. And yet his arms were taking away the pain, making her demise a dangerously sensual experience. Her lids fluttered open to be met by his searching gaze.

His eyes... what had happened to them? They were normally so pale and cold, like discs of perfectly rounded ice. Now though, they were the colour of the rain-laden storm clouds outside, dark and foreboding. As if to emphasise her thoughts, a flash of lightning illuminated the room. The storm showed little sign of abating. She wondered briefly when the torches had gone out.

But his eyes were too mesmerising and she found herself drawn back to them. She barely registered the fact that his left hand was skimming lightly up her side, the hem of her t-shirt lifting just a little with the movement. Then he was cupping her face with a feather-light touch, his thumb tracing the contours of her lips. And not once did his eyes move from hers. Not until he leaned forward, his own lips brushing softly against her neck.

If she hadn't drowned already, she just had. She uttered his name helplessly. “Malfoy...”

That was enough to push him over the edge. All hold on the enchantment slipped away and the music enveloped them, pulsing through them both as one...

* * *

The eyes peering through the wall widened in pure unadulterated pleasure. This was perfect, a golden opportunity for some fun. Things had been so dull since Bumbridge had been carried off into the Forbidden Forest by a mangy centaur. Something like this would certainly liven things up!

He watched as the two figures moved together, stepping and turning around each other in a dance of blatant courtship. The tall blond Slytherin, Malfoy, guiding the smaller Gryffindor girl, Granger, with intimate hands; twisting around her, spinning her away from him, then pulling her back, their bodies moulding against each other's...

Oh yes... He nodded wickedly. This was too good an opportunity to miss. As the couple moved slowly together across the cleared space of the classroom, he flew screeching from his hiding place.

The spell was instantly broken. Hermione, shocked at the sudden wrench from her near-intoxicated state, blinked in bewilderment. Draco, equally astonished, happened to see the small figure swooping down on them. He fell to the floor, partly to avoid him and partly because his legs were so weak that they couldn't support him. The airborne abomination kicked Hermione smartly on the side of her head, causing her to wheel around, clutching at the contact spot. If nothing else, it certainly brought her from her stupor. She stared down at Draco on the floor at her feet. What in Merlin's name was going on?

“Malfoy and Granger, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g!” the little beast cackled. “Wait until the school hears about this!”

He whizzed over Hermione's head again but this time she had the presence of mind to duck. She looked at Draco in horror. Something had just happened, because she couldn't remember anything since gazing out of the window at the bedraggled Slytherin team returning from the Quidditch pitch. She narrowed her eyes. What had he done to her?

But Draco was staring up at the creature preparing to dive bomb him. He scuttled to one side before it reached him and it shot straight through the floor. More cackles followed before it resurfaced a few feet away. It waved its hands wildly in the air and Hermione had to flatten herself on the floor as two stools and a desk passed forcibly through the air where her head had been, swinging round the classroom in wide arcs. Draco, meanwhile, had grabbed another stool and flung it as hard as he could at the figure. He realised too late that his mind still wasn't quite his own.

The chair sailed straight through its intended target and smashed through the window behind him, disappearing into the rumbling storm. Before Draco even realised what was happening the creature launched itself at him again, this time armed with a large glass bottle of something decidedly foul looking. He hurled it at Draco and it scored a direct hit, shattering on his head. It smelled as foul as it looked. Another bottle appeared from nowhere and this one was flung at Hermione. She tried to roll to one side but her energy was spent. The bottle hit her square on her shoulder, soaking her left side. The little figure retreated into the walls, cackling about how 'this wasn't the end of it'.

Draco was fuming. “I'm going to fucking kill you when I get–” Then he realised what he had said. He smacked his fist on a desk, his anger quickly escalating until he let it out in an almighty shout.

“PEEEEEEVVVVVEEEEES!!!!!!”
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Deceptions