“And why would you want to hack off Seamus Finnigan?”
Because he's a smarmy little bastard,” Draco said. “Because he grabbed your broom last Quidditch game, and I —”
She looked disgusted. “You expect me to believe that? Nice try.”
“He annoys me,” Draco said with a shrug. “Make of that what you will.”
Blaise bit her lip. Her internal struggle was visible on her face. She wanted to believe him, and yet her inner cynic would not let her. When she finally spoke, her voice was carefully slow. “You're using me,” she said. “I just don't know what for, or why.”
Draco was jolted. “No—“
She cut him off. “Give me one good reason to stay with you, Draco Malfoy,” she said. “One.”
He glanced down, and was greeted by the sight of her feet in their silver strapped shoes, her toenails painted silver to match. Her toes were curling under, which always happened when she was nervous — everyone, he thought seemed to have one mannerism that always betrayed them –
Hermione's biting her lip, Harry's twisting his hands together. “I'll buy you something pretty,” he said.
She laughed. It wasn't a happy laugh. “Like what?”
“Whatever you want.” He looked up from her feet, and saw her staring at him, her cheeks flushed. He took a step forward and put his hands on her waist; when they'd been children, he'd almost been able to span her small waist with his hands. “There was that bracelet you liked in Diagon Alley…”
“I don't want any jewelry, Draco,” she said, cutting him off.
“Then what do you want, darling?” he said, chancing an endearment.
It worked; she almost smiled. “When I was a little girl,” she said, “I always wanted a pony to ride.”
He laid his hand against her cheek. Her skin was soft under his touch, her eyes enormous and lambently green. She was gorgeous — probably the prettiest girl he'd ever seen — and he felt nothing for her beyond a distant unfocused desire. “I bet I could help you make do without one,” Draco said softly into her ear.
Her eyelids fluttered down, her long lashes shading her gaze, and for a moment she rested her cheek against his hand. Then her eyes flicked back up to his face, and she stepped back and away from him, pushing his hands away. “I don't think so,” she said. “You don't get to touch me yet.”
Draco wasn't sure whether he felt snubbed or relieved. “Blaise…”
“Make me look like a fool again and I'll rip out your kidneys and wear them as earrings,” she said. “And that's a promise.”
“I thought you said Slytherins don't keep their promises,” Draco said.
“I'll keep that one,” she replied, and turned on her heel. “You can count on it,” and she stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
Night had already fallen when Harry left the armory and trudged upstairs to Gryffindor Tower. He was late to supper, and was sweaty, tired and in need of a shower. He spoke the password (“Ashwinder!”) and stepped into the common room, which was filled with flickering firelight. His eyes lit up when he saw that the room was empty save for Ron, who was sprawled in one of the fat armchairs pulled close to the fire.
Ron looked up as Harry came into the room, and waved him over. Harry came and dropped into the armchair next to Ron's, and for a moment they sat and stared into the leaping orange flames in a companionable silence. It was Harry who spoke first. “Sorry I'm late,” he said. “I was —”
“With Malfoy,” said Ron. “I know. You had fencing practice.” He was looking into the firelight; the vivid flames painted a dark gold shadow over his already bright hair. “Hedwig brought something for you while you were gone,” he said, as if remembering something, and began rummaging beside the armchair. “I put it back here…”
“Thanks…where's Hermione?”
“She went off to stash that cup thing. Said she had a perfectly brilliant hiding place for it.” Ron sat back up, a small package in his hand, addressed to Harry. “Here you go.”
Harry sat up straight and took the package. “I'd almost forgotten I bought this,” he said, tearing it open.
Ron looked curious. “What is it, then?”
Harry smiled. “You want to see?” He had succeeded in getting the package open now, and tipped something out of it into his hand. He held the hand out to Ron, opening his fingers to reveal something that glimmered blue in the center of his palm.
Ron stared at it. “A ring?” he said. “I didn't know you cared.”
“It's not for you, pillock,” said Harry easily. “It's for Hermione, of course.”
Ron sat where he was, staring down at Harry's hand. He made no move to touch the ring. “Is that a sapphire?”
Harry glanced down at the delicately worked blue circlet in his hand. “No, it's Venetian gl—“
“Is it a Christmas present?” Ron interrupted.
Harry blinked, looking slightly flummoxed by this hard line of questioning. “Well, it is but it's also…” he hesitated. “I suppose it's an I'm-sorry present. Sorry for being distant, for being difficult — you know. What we talked about before.” He bit his lip. “I just want her to understand that my recent behavior doesn't have anything to do with whether I love her.”
He looked down at the clear blue jewel. “I guess I couldn't think of the right way to say it, so…”
“No.” Ron was shaking his head. “No. Harry. That's stupid.”
