CH-29

He still doesn't say a word, and suddenly it looks to me as though he's at a loss. I can't help but smile.

"My, oh my," I say, "I never thought I'd see the day when the great Draco Malfoy would be completely speechless."

Still, he doesn't respond. Why won't he say anything? Then he turns around and sits down on the couch. I sigh and wait for him to speak. Does he have something for me or not? Then he smiles, and I feel like I have to spur things on.

"What do you want? The battle's going on right now, and I don't want to waste time here if I don't have to."

"You wouldn't have come if you couldn't spare the time," he says.

I only came because he said now!

"I promise I won't take up too much of your time," he says, holding a hand up in surrender.

"What did you want to tell me?" I ask.

"I just wanted to apologize for last night."

Whoa, whoa, whoa. What did I just hear?

"Wait, you're—you're apologizing?" I say aloud.

"Yes, that's what I said."

"But… but why?" I ask, bewildered.

He laughs lightly. "Why what?"

Oh, god. Why what, indeed. Why are you apologizing to me? Why did you kiss me the first time? Why did you kiss me the second time? Why did you choose to turn to our side? Why is it that you've never been far from my thoughts since the first time we spoke in three years? Oh… I need to sit down.

"Can I sit?" I ask.

"Sure."

I walk around the coffee table and sit down on the couch, keeping some distance from Malfoy.

Settle for the simplest question first.

"Why are you apologizing?" I ask. You're Malfoy.

A frown immediately appears on his face, and I realize that I spoke the last part aloud. I shake my head. "Sorry, that came out wrong."

"I'm apologizing for kissing you," he says. He grins and continues, "I was curious to see how you'd react."

Oh curiosity, was it? Damn him!

"The same way you 'tested' me back at Grimmauld Place?" I say.

"Yeah, sure. Something like that."

Why does he sound so nonchalant? Ugh!

"I'm a human, not a test subject. You can't just—"

"I know, I know," he cuts me off. "That's why I'm apologizing now."

"Oh, and is that supposed to make it all better?" I say angrily. "You had me up all the rest of the night trying to figure out what the hell you meant by that kiss!"

He glances at me, and I realize that I probably shouldn't have said the last part aloud. My cheeks grow uncomfortably hot, and I avert my eyes. I glare at the coffee table. I hate that he gets me so worked up.

"What can I do to make it up to you, then?" he asks in a soft voice.

I look over at him, unable to hide my surprise. He looks completely sincere, not an ounce of mockery on his features. His eyes look especially beautiful right now, and suddenly I don't want to look away. Why can't he always look like this? Scratch that—if he always looked like this, then I'd always be hopelessly distracted by him.

I take a deep breath, regaining composure.

"Who are you, and what have you done with Draco Malfoy?"

He only laughs, and I sigh.

"I'm serious."

"It's going to take one hell of a long time to win this war. I don't plan on dying anytime soon, and as long as we both stay alive, I'll keep passing information along to the Order," he explains. "I figure… as long as we're going to be working together, we might as well try to get along."

Okay, that makes sense. "And the kiss was…?" I ask.

"That was just me being… stupid."

He's so… so abnormal today! The Malfoy I knew from school would never admit to doing something stupid, yet he's labeling himself with that word without flinching. What's happening to the world?

"My apology…" he says, "look at it like an olive branch."

Wow. He's making a peace offer. I don't even know how I should react. I… I'm supposed to accept, right? This is starting to seem too good to be true, and I begin to wonder if he's about to say that he's only joking and that he would never apologize to a Mudblood like me.

"Look, Granger, I'm sorry. What more do you want from me?"

What more do I want? He's apologized, and the kiss… while it made me lose quite a bit of sleep and scared me out of my wits—in the aftermath, I mean—it didn't really hurt me, did it? As long as it never, ever happens again, it'll be fine.

I shake my head, clearing my thoughts. "You're right, Malfoy. It'll be a lot easier if we're at least civil with each other."

He nods, a relieved smile making his face light up. Again, I start wishing for the familiarity of his smirks and snide comments. No, no. We're going to be civil now. I have to get used to that… that beautiful, near-irresistible smile. Just looking at his mouth makes my lips tingle with the memory of being kissed by him. I hurriedly try to repress my thoughts and remind myself that members of the Order are still fighting as we speak.

"Is that all you wanted to tell me?" I ask.

"Pretty much, yes," he says.

"I should go, then. Members of the Order could be getting back from the battlefield hurt, and I have to help," I reply. I stand up.

"Always so altruistic, you are," he comments. "Do you never do anything for yourself?"

What a strange question. I've always believed that humans are inherently selfish creatures on some level, and I'm no different. "We all do some things for ourselves, don't we?" I reply.

I lift my wand to Disapparate, but his words stop me.

"Granger, wait."

I turn to face him and see a strange expression on his face, one that I don't recognize.

"Take care," he says.

My heart skips a beat. The expression that I see is concern. Concern. Is Malfoy—does he—no, it's simply impossible!

I have to get out of here.

"Thanks, Malfoy," I say quickly before Disapparating.

Appearing on the doorstep of Grimmauld Place, I take a few deep breaths to calm myself. I was seeing things. I was too surprised by his change in demeanor, and I imagined that look on his face. He couldn't possibly care about my well-being.

But he told me to take care. And the tone of his voice… it was… more tender than his voice had ever been before when he spoke to me.

I shake my head. I'll have time to think about this later. I knock on the door, and it swings open almost instantly. Dean Thomas points his wand at me.

"What's your middle name?"

I gasp. "Dean, your arm!"

His left arm is hanging limply at his side, looking frighteningly boneless.

"Answer the question," he barks, his face extremely pale for his normal olive skin tone.

"Jean."

"Where—"

"My parents think they're Wendell and Monica Wilkins, and they're in Australia."

.

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