Title: Boy III

Author: SkoosiePants

“Shove over, Shorty.”

Hermione groaned and rolled onto her side. Bleary-eyed, she glanced up at Draco, who was at that very moment trying to weasel his way into her bed. “Wha…? Draco, what’re you…?”

“Trying to get some sleep. Now move over,” he grumbled, pulling the blankets to his chest and using his hip to forcibly slide her out of the center of the bed.

She pushed herself up on her elbow and leaned over him. In the moonlight, she could see his grimace of pain, his eyes tightly pressed closed. Suddenly wide-awake, she demanded, "What's the matter? What's happened?"

"He said I wasn't worth the trouble anymore," Draco whispered softly.

Hermione blinked. "What?"

"Nothing," he said quickly, rolling so his back was to her. "I don't want to talk about it."

"But--"

"Leave it, Granger. Please."

It was as much the quiet pain in the plea as the plea itself that stemmed her urge to prod at him until he spilled all. She'd never seen, nor heard Draco so distraught. Without another word, she curled up against him, one arm slipping around his narrow waist.

In the morning, she woke to an empty bed, although she heard him puttering around the outer room. She showered, then quickly pulled on a discarded shirt after hearing a shout and muffled curse.

"Draco, what…?"

He stood in the middle of the living room, clad only in a pair of black silk boxers, a broken mug in his palm, a few pieces of crockery scattered across the thin area rug. "Sorry," he mumbled, looking heartbreakingly lost as he shifted from foot to foot and stared at his hands.

"It's all right," she said soothingly, walking towards him to take the glass.

He glanced over at her, gray eyes devoid of emotion. "I'm sorry," he said again and she moved into his arms, pressing her check against his chest.

"Everything's going to be fine," she said confidently. "You'll be fine. I promise."

She felt his forehead fall to touch the top of her head and he sighed into her hair, awkwardly bringing up his own hands to cross over her back.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?" she asked quietly.

"Just a stupid fight," he mumbled.

There was a loud knock on the door and Hermione smiled into his skin. "I bet that's Ron now, wondering where you are."

"He knows where I am," Draco said dejectedly. "He's the one who gave me your password."

She sighed. "Still…" The knock sounded again, louder and more impatient, and Hermione, reluctant to give up her hold on the emotionally fragile blond, called out, "Let him in, Billy."

Her painting gave a loud huff, but obediently swung open.

"Hello? I just…" The voice, deep and pleasant, drifted off into a murmur of "Oh, I'm so sorry," and Hermione realized it wasn't Ron standing framed by the portrait hole. It was Blaise Zabini.

Hermione was suddenly and acutely conscious of the fact that she wasn't wearing trousers.

The man was even more handsome than when she'd last seen him, despite the rather severe and close-cropped haircut he was sporting. Deep midnight blue robes draped his broad frame, making his irises seem even lighter in his dark face. His cheeks were flushed with either anger or embarrassment. Blaise had never been the type, though, to be easily embarrassed.

"I just came by to talk about Ash's recent behavior," he said, looking anywhere but at Hermione and Draco. "Ah, Dumbledore said I could bother you here since I have to get back to…" He trailed off, then cleared his throat. "So, Herm-Granger, um, I'll just, ah, wait for you in the library then, shall I? Draco." He nodded sharply, then pivoted on his heel and stalked off down the hall without a backward glance.

"Draco?" Hermione asked, still staring after Blaise.

"Hmmm?"

She licked her lips. "Why do you suppose that little scene was so incredibly awkward?"

Draco stepped away from her and rolled his eyes. "Because he's in love with you, you twit."

“But doesn’t he know you’re…” she waved her hand.

“Breathtakingly gorgeous?” he suggested innocently.

She scowled at him.

“Pureblooded perfection? Powerful yet humble?” He paused. “Shacking up with a redhead?”

“Don’t be obtuse. Prat.”

Draco gave in with a sigh. “It doesn’t matter what he knows, Granger. You were wearing my shirt.” He held up his hand and started ticking off his fingers. “I was strolling about in my boxers. You had sexily mussed hair.”

Hermione gave a disbelieving snort, then said, startled, "Wait, I'm wearing your shirt?" She glanced down at herself. "Damn."

“And," he continued, "you were pressed up against me, your lips to my bare collarbone, and my hand was thinking about slipping down to your arse.”

She hit him on the arm. “I was giving you a well-needed hug, and your hand was thinking about doing no such thing. Honestly, I’m starting to think Ron had the right idea, kicking you out.”

Draco's face immediately fell and he turned and stalked back into the bedroom.

Hermione, horrified, hurried after him. "I'm sorry, Draco, I didn't mean it."

"The thing is, Granger," he said, spinning around to face her, "he did mean it."

She placed her hands on her hips, Draco's white undershirt pulling taut across her breasts. "I refuse to believe that Ron would give you up over a 'stupid fight.'"

"He shouted, and I quote: Get out, Draco, I never want to see your fucking ugly face again." His voice and facial expressions were laced with bitterness.

"Well, there you go," Hermione said matter-of-factly. "He couldn't have meant it, Draco. Ugly?" She patted his cheek and then gave him a fast peck on the lips. "Now, I have to get out of your shirt if I'm going to meet Blaise. Oh, Merlin," panic welled up inside her, "I'm meeting Blaise."

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