As they talked, they reached the middle of the campsite. The path here grew too narrow for them to walk side by side, so they were forced to go one behind the other, weaving through the steadily thickening crowd.
Wherever there are crowds, accidents are bound to follow. Especially on a night as rare as this one, with countless drunken revellers shouting, and every sort of wizard gathered together in one place.
In an instant, disaster struck. A drunken leprechaun came careering towards them, forcing Hermione to step back suddenly, nearly tripping over her own feet. She let out a short, sharp cry, looking as though she might topple straight over backwards.
When it came to Hermione Granger, Draco's body always reacted far more honestly than his brain, or his mouth, ever managed.
He reacted at once, catching her round the waist and shielding her back with his own chest, stopping her fall.
Hermione's heart began pounding wildly.
She could not tell whether it was from the sudden fright, or from the warmth spreading from his hands across her waist. She had simply tumbled straight into his arms, and he had caught her without a moment's hesitation.
The realisation left her quite dazzled, all her inner defences crumbling at once.
This was their first real physical contact of the whole day... it felt an age since he had last held her round the waist, that other time... and this sudden touch thrilled her all over again.
She should not have let this happen. Nor should he have done it, either. It was quite beyond anything she had expected.
Before she could think better of it, she spun round in a panic to look at him, only to find him watching her with real concern in his eyes.
Too close, she thought.
He was far too close to her. His finely carved features filled her whole field of vision, and that pleasant scent of cedarwood was quietly wrapping itself round her.
"Thank you," she whispered, quickly turning her head to look straight ahead again, her neck held stiffly.
"You are welcome," he murmured, close to her ear. A breath from his lips sent a warm current down her neck, which then rippled through the rest of her in a shiver.
Her trembling did not escape Draco's notice at all... his hands, keenly attuned, sensed every subtle change in her.
It was hard not to notice, given how thin and short her top was; the slightest lift of her arm revealed a smooth, slender waist beneath. His hand now rested there quite without hindrance, as though cradling some vivid, fragrant length of silk.
For him, too, the touch came as something of a shock, and that hollow feeling which had plagued him the whole holiday found itself, in that instant, satisfied at last. His heart, which had been burning with such want, now brimmed instead with something like quiet contentment, no longer so troubled.
"Are you cold?" he asked, swallowing hard, his voice a little unsteady.
He could not bring himself to move his hand away, reluctant to let go, and yet dared not shift it carelessly either.
"No," Hermione said briefly, her voice trembling slightly.
That direct touch had made one thing perfectly clear to her. She did not mind his touch at all; quite the opposite, her heart had fluttered at it. Then came a sort of tightening feeling, unfamiliar, taut, mingled with something like anticipation.
Did this mean something, then?
She felt rather light-headed. After a considerable inner struggle, she managed to pull herself from his arms, leave the warmth of his hands, and carry on walking ahead with her large water jug.
Draco went on following her, quietly letting out a breath, and secretly clenching his right hand... the very one that had just held her waist.
He could still feel some lingering trace of her silken warmth upon it. It felt quite different from his other hand, the one that had not touched her at all.
He wanted to smell that hand, and, in truth, did so quietly. He was certain he could still catch some faint trace of her scent upon it.
This thought, or rather, this rather private little act, brought colour rushing to his cheeks at once.
Fortunately, she had not noticed. She remained silent. She refused to meet his eye, either.
She walked stubbornly ahead of him, gripping the large water jug with great determination, still refusing any further offers of help.
He could make no sense at all of what she was thinking, just then. There was no girl in the world harder to fathom than her.
The road ahead remained hazardous. There would always be some drunken reveller weaving through the crowd, or some overly excited fanatic, careless of who stood in their way.
Draco could not afford to relax his guard. He had to stay close beside her, raising his arm now and then to shield her from being jostled by the celebrating crowds along the way, rather like some puppy guarding its dinner.
He could not bear the thought of her being knocked into by some drunken wizard, or goblin, or whatever else might be wandering about tonight.
Even though she remained thoroughly stubborn, refusing any further help from him, at least she never once pushed away his arm when it came to protect her.
Hermione's heart was in a great state of turmoil. Amid all the noise and jostling, she would every so often be pushed straight into his arms, and he would always catch her.
Sometimes his chest pressed against her back, sometimes he caught her arm, sometimes he shielded her waist.
Each touch left her trembling and unsteady. On this short walk alone, her heartbeat had gone quite irregular.
The boy behind her said nothing at all. She had no idea what he was thinking, nor what was in his mind, as he shielded her so carefully.
She did not even dare look back at that irresistibly handsome face of his.
And yet, his mere presence alone was enough to leave her thoroughly intoxicated. She could not understand his intentions at all.
Once it was all over, once the crowds thinned again, he would always let her go, of his own accord, as he always did.
He probably did all this simply out of good manners, she thought, a lump rising in her throat.
Perhaps it was only the sort of protectiveness one showed towards a little sister. It was understandable enough, that an only child might long for siblings of her own... had she not grown rather fond of little Ginny herself, after all?
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