Chapter 8

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      For the next few hours, Draco lay awake in his bed. He couldn't get to sleep, but it wasn't for lack of trying.

      He couldn't get her out of his head.

      He knew he had been found out- and by Weaslette at that- because he had listened at the door to the full conversation between the two girls. He had hurriedly escaped to his room, dropping his school bag in the process, but he had heard Weaslette's every word.

      Had he really made it so obvious?

      He supposed the fiasco at the Astronamy Tower would have been enough to tip her off that something was up, but he hadn't wanted to lay his cards on the table all at once.

      By the sound of it, Weaslette not only suspected, but was almost certain of his feelings for Hermione.

      He felt like punching a wall, throwing his newly repaired possessions, making enough noise that she would get up and come running, that she would fix everything in the way only she could, that she would hug him in the she hugged her friends... Or the way she hugged Weaslebee.

      Just thinking his name ignited a spark of rage within Draco, but he suppressed it. Now was not the time for tantrums. Now was the time to make a plan, act like a true Slytherin should. He was cunning; he could form a plan, set it into action, and have it work out perfectly.

      He spent the next hour trying to form a plan, but each was as absurd as the last, and he was getting more and more frustrated by the minute. He brought his hands to his face, then took them away. He gazed at his long, pale fingers, admiring Hermione's handiwork. No matter what anyone said, she was strong, and he knew that. The only remaining reminder of his earlier tantrum was a small cut on his thumb that she had missed.

      Rolling over so that he was face down in the pillow, he wished she were with him now. The night in the Astronamy Tower was the only one since the end of fifth year where he didn't have nightmares. He almost deluded himself into believing that the nightmares were the only reason. He could easily remember the feel of her in his arms, small and supple and warm.

      Giving himself a slight shake, he turned onto his side, and a restless sleep overtook him.

      The next morning, he woke suddenly from another nightmare. Horribly enough, this particular nightmare was his worst; it had happened in Malfoy Manor, and Hermione had been in it. He could still hear her screams echoing in the darkness, mingling with Bellatrix's wild, mad laughter as she tortured her. Draco had been forced to sit there, watch as Hermione was tortured within an inch of her life, finally passing out after what seemed like hours.

      Draco had always know she was a fighter, but he had never seen just how far she would go to protect what she believed in. In this case, her stubborn attitude could have been deadly.

      He went to the bathroom and turned on the tap, splashing cool water onto his face. He wanted those images out of his head. Badly.

      It was three-quarters-past five in the morning, and once again, he needed something to do. Just like the last time, Hermione's face swam before him.

      He would do something about his boredom, he decided, but he would be nicer to her in the process.

      He turned from the mirror and to her door. She always left it unlocked, whether intentionally or by accident. He took two strides, grabbed the knob, and twisted. As he had predicted, it was unlocked. He knocked lightly before pushing it open.

      Her room was dark, and her shape, curled on the bed, was almost motionless, except for the slight rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. Taking his gaze from that... particular area, he knocked lightly on the doorframe, but she still did not stir. He knocked louder; still no response. Carefully, he walked forward, quietly so as not to startle her. He walked around the four-poster bed, and stood in front of her. Her face was peaceful, eyes closed so her long eyelashes made small, brown half moons against he cheeks. He reached out and shook her shoulder softly.

      "Is that you, enormous ferret?" She asked sleepily.

      "No. Sorry to disappoint," he whispered, a note of amusement in his voice, "but then again, how could you be disappointed if I was in your bedroom?"

      His sly comment was enough to fully wake her. Glaring at him, she sat up. "What are you doing here?" She asked.

      He wasn't about to tell her about his nightmare, especially as it involved her, so he just said, "Couldn't sleep," and left it at that. She looked at him funnily, and for a moment he thought she suspected. In the next moment, her face went back to a passive, if a little annoyed, expression.

      "I would say I couldn't either, but you know, I was sleeping." She said, though there was a note of laughter in her voice.

      "Well, you don't need any more beauty sleep. You're fine on that level." He tried at flattery.

      "Er... thanks, Draco." She said, looking both confused and happy, "Anyway, not to be rude, but why are you here?"

      "I didn't feel like sleeping in my own room," he said smoothly, "and as you have so much space, I figured I'd put it to good use." With that, he walked around to the other side of the bed and flopped down.

      "Draco! Get off, you arse!" She cried indignantly, turning on to her other side to face him. He merely smirked and pulled the covers over himself, heaving a great sigh. "Draco!" She said again.

      "That's it, keep screaming my name while we're in the same bed. That won't raise suspicion at all." He said sarcastically, his eyes still closed. That shut her up.

      In the next moment, several things happened at once.

      There was a loud pop, a pain in his rear, a loud bang, and a loud, blood-curdling scream.

      He hastened to untangle himself from the bedsheets from his place on the floor; Hermione had dumped him off of her bed. By the time he was on his feet, she had her wand out and pointed at the door, her shoes already on and laced up. She pulled a dressing gown over her fluffy pajamas, and they wordlessly ran from her room and to the portrait hole. They pushed through, and she stopped in front of Snape's portrait, tugging at his arm in a wordless 'wait.'

      "Professor?" She asked the portrait's sallow faced, hook-nosed inhabitant. He nodded at her.

      "Yes, Miss Granger?"

      "Do you... do you know what's happened?" She asked him carefully.

      "It's better you find out for yourselves." Was his only answer as he left his frame.

   "Why'd you ask him?" He questioned, confused.

   "It's not a good idea to just go racing into something without any information if you can help it." She replied shortly, then began to run down the stairs, only to trip on something on the next landing. She sprang to her feet and looked back.

   Her eyes widened with horror, just as his had done seconds before.

   She had tripped over a person.

   He hurried forward, trying to block it from her sight, but she pushed past him, still gazing in open-mouthed, silent horror at the person on the floor.

   There lie Susan Bones.

   She was pale.

   She had a silver S right on her forehead.

   And she was unmistakably dead.

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