Archive of Our Own

September

Professor McGonagall knows better than to interrupt them when they’re arguing, or make any attempt to intervene.

She has learnt, over the years, that disagreements between the Potions and Arithmancy professor are not particularly benefited by her mediation.

The past half-decade has given her ample opportunity to play peacemaker in their frequent clashes - but what she has realised - to her mild surprise - is that when they do butt heads, the best course of action is to quietly absent herself from the staff room and let them reach a detente on their own terms, in their own time. 

She lets the door close behind her with a soft click, rolls her eyes and leaves them to their own devices. 

*

“Far be it for me to question your unrivalled methods of discipline-”

“And yet here you are, questioning them-”

“But I was merely pondering, in a purely academic, hypothetical sense-”

“I’m very sure-”

“If perhaps a month’s worth of detention was leaning towards the more militant-”

“-sense of favouritism truly knows no bounds-”

“-the transgressions in questions were hardly-”

“They were about to have sex in the corridor-”

“-didn’t realise we were entering the realms of pure conjecture-”

Hermione makes a noise somewhere between a squawk and a scoff.

“You are joking? I feel very safe in my conjecture, that they were absolutely about to-”

“They’re teenagers,” Draco says, waving a hand dismissively with infuriating elegance. “They’re all hormones. And they hadn’t seen each other all summer.”

She sits back in her armchair, surveying him carefully. “And you think that’s an excuse?”

“I think you’re being unnecessarily harsh, unnecessarily early in the year,” he says firmly. 

“And would you be saying this if it had been two Gryffindor students?” she narrows her eyes. 

He shrugs. “Well, given they probably wouldn’t have informed me of the punishment in the first place, I wouldn’t have known about it to defend them, would I?” he says smoothly. “I dread to think what ludicrous disciplinary measures are doled out to those poor, brave dimwits under your iron fist, but alas, I’m in no position to fight for their-”

“Oh, do shut up,” she says, patience running out right on schedule. He shoots her a slightly crooked smile; once upon a time she would have called it a smirk, but she knows the nuances of his face far better these days - and this is less a smirk than a smile of triumph. 

Because as well as she knows the spectrum of his expressions now, he in turn is able read her posture changes, her gestures - her tells, as he refers to them, the bloody psychopath - with a level of understanding that she finds almost bewildering in it’s accuracy. And in this particular moment, he has realised she is wavering. 

The absolute arse. 

“Two weeks,” she says briskly, turning her attention back to the essays she’s trying to mark. “And no Hogsmeade this month, either,” she adds. “That’s my final offer,”

He rises from the sofa he’s been lounging on, and favours her with another smile - this one is, in fact, a smirk - before heading to the door, tugging one of her curls as he crosses behind her chair.

“Your benevolence knows no bounds, Professor,”

“Piss off,”

The sound of his laugh rings in her ears long after the door has swung shut. 

October

Professor Rowle is well-accustomed to fielding curious questions from her colleagues. 

Her occupation has taken a far greater significance since the war, now the subject has become compulsory for students to OWL level, and she takes the responsibility of her job seriously; in turn, her colleagues are suitably deferential and respectful of her specialism, though there is no denying each of them take a varying level of interest in the subject itself.  

There is one colleague, however, who’s enthusiasm for the subject sits head and shoulders above everyone else’s. 

Though mildly bewildering at first, she now finds Professor Malfoy’s ongoing interest and independent study hugely cheering. He visits her once a week, at least, for tea and biscuits, and they spend an hour or two discussing whichever aspect of Muggle life has piqued his interest on that particular day. 

There doesn’t seem to be much uniformity to the topics he lands on; the spectrum is vast, and all-encompassing. Sometimes he’ll enquire about Muggle cooking techniques - other days he’ll want a potted history of Muggle warfare - and she has lost count of the number of books she has lent him, or recommended over the years.  

She often wonders if the tragic circumstances of his childhood are what drives him in his seemingly endless thirst for knowledge of this particular subject. Or if, perhaps, there is another reason for his ardent - and endless - curiosity.

She has her suspicions. 

*

“I don’t know why it’s not working,” Draco looks utterly dejected, and Hermione feels an all-too-familiar twist, just behind her ribs. 

“What’s not working?” she asks, stepping over the threshold into his private quarters, peering into the room as rain thrashes against the windows. 

She makes fun of him, endlessly, for his decor - and really, it is a ludicrous amount of green - but privately, she quite likes the small, cosy living room, with its silly, ostentatious furniture and strange mixture of magical and muggle art. He moved up from the quarters he’d been allocated down by the Potions room last year; ostensibly because he said it was too cold down there and he wasn’t prepared to stay in the bloody dungeons.

The fact this now puts his rooms just round the corner from hers is merely a happy accident.

“The… remote controller,” he says, frowning, and pushing his reading glasses up the bridge of his nose. For a moment he looks so professorial - so scholarly - that it renders her speechless with some nonsensical combination of affection and… well, something else. 

“The what?” she blinks in confusion at the small television and DVD player set up against the wall. “What are you-”

“You said you wanted to watch horrific films-”

“Horror films,”

“Right, yes, on Halloween - that’s what you said you used to do when you were younger?”

“Well, yes,”

“I wanted to see what the fuss was about. I borrowed some from Rowle,” he says, walking over to the TV, and peering behind it frowning. “And she bloody showed me how to use it, and it was working… but now it’s just-”

“Let’s have a look,” she says, fighting back a grin that threatens to overwhelm her face.

Electronic devices work a little better these days within the castle, despite the magic in the air - a combination of careful charms and wards that were prioritised post-War as Muggle Studies and the comfort of Muggle-born students took greater priority - but she knows from her own experience that sometimes there are hiccups. 

Though a few checks confirm the anti-interference charms all seem to be in full working order. She frowns. 

“It could just be the batteries,”

“The what?”

Ten minutes later - after a trip back to Rowle’s office - they settle down to watch the first of the hefty pile of DVDs he has selected. 

*

He’s baffled by it all - utterly baffled - but she seems to be enjoying herself. At one point she squeaks at a frequency he had no idea humans were capable of, and flings herself into his side, burying her face against his arm, while he watches with a combination of amusement and disgust at the ongoing gore on the screen. 

“Why are you scared?” he asks, “You said you’ve seen this one?”

“Yes, but not for ages,” she says, muffled by his sleeve. Her words are warm against his arm, while an entirely different sort of warmth diffuses through his entire body. When she pulls away eventually, smoothing her hair away from her face to focus back on the screen, she is delightfully flushed, and he has to force himself to stop casting her sidelong glances. 

*

“Which was your favourite then?” she asks, peering over the bowl of popcorn balanced on her stomach. She’s fully reclined across the sofa now, head against the armrest with her feet in his lap, her curls piled on top of her head, straining against whatever poor, unsuspecting hair grip she’s testing the limits of today. 

He’s needed to wee for the past hour, but for some reason he hasn’t moved. 

“I quite liked the vampire one,” he says thoughtfully. “I didn’t like the chainsaw one - very mental - and the witchy one was quite good too. Though I still can’t believe that’s what they think witches are,"

“It is a bit mad,” she agrees, sighing. “But there are other films where witches aren’t… like that, you know. It’s not all doom and gloom,”

“I just don’t really understand why the little piles of sticks made them worry so much, it could easily have just been Bowtruckles-”

He’s cut off by her laughter, and an errant thought pops into his head.

That he will merrily be baffled by Muggle films for the rest of his life if it means she laughs like that. 

November

“I just don’t think it would be appropriate,” Hermione gives Harry a pained expression as he regards her from the enormous chintz armchair he currently occupies. Crookshanks shifts slightly in his lap, purring loudly.

“Molly wants you there, we all do-”

“Harry, they just got married,” she says, refraining from massaging her temples with some effort. “I just think… maybe their first married Christmas should not include an ex-girlfriend-”

“But it’s you,” he says, blinking at her with a typically owlish, earnest look. She wants to throw a biscuit at his head for his naivety, but she also wants to give him a hug and ruffle his hair. It’s a familiar feeling, where he’s concerned. “And you were away last year too, so-”

“It’s just not a good idea,” she says firmly, not unkindly. “I’ll see you all at Padma’s thing anyway, so it’s not like-’

“And you’ll bring Malfoy?”

She blinks at him. “Well… I mean, he’ll be there, sure, but I’m not… bringing him, he’s just invited-”

“Right,” Harry gives her a strange, opaque look. “Obviously - I just meant, you’ll come together?”

“Well, we’ll both be travelling from the school, so yes,”

“Okay,” For some reason, Harry looks as though he’s trying not to laugh. “Right, fine, well I suppose that’s better than nothing. Though I still think it’ll be… bloody weird without you there on the day,”

“It’s for the best,” she says gently. “And anyway, I’ve already started making other plans,”

“Australia again?”

“Yep,” she smiles. “Two whole weeks on a beach, I can’t bloody wait,”

He grins. “And then on New Year’s you’ll be back for ours, right?”

She nods. 

“And you’ll bring- well… Malfoy’s coming too, isn’t he?” 

She frowns in confusion. “I don’t know, is he?”

Harry gives her a strange, inexplicable look of frustration, then reaches for a biscuit. 

December

Professor Flitwick is used to both Professor Malfoy and Professor Granger coming to him with amusing questions around this time of year. It’s no real surprise that two such uniformly organised individuals should commence their Christmas planning and purchasing at the very start of the month. That they should both take such a keen interest in gift wrapping specifically, is a delightful quirk he takes great enjoyment in indulging. 

Last year, Professor Malfoy wanted to know how best to charm the ribbons adorning one of his presents into the shape of a small lion, that would roar before bursting into flames and leaving the present behind, unharmed.

The year before, Professor Granger had a rather complex question regarding how to overlay a carefully wrapped package with a charm that would send a shower of harmless green and silver fireworks and confetti all over the recipient.

He finds himself delighting in the intricacies of their requests, having always enjoyed a challenge- though he never asks who the gifts in question are for. It strikes him as unseemly to ask, given they have never volunteered the information themselves.

And in any case, he tends not to make a habit of asking questions he already knows the answer to.

*

“Ready?” 

“Nearly, nearly,” she says, ushering him into her quarters and closing the door. He raises an eyebrow at her.

“You don’t look nearly-”

“I just need to choose a dress,” she snaps, somehow managing to look chastising while wearing a dressing gown. 

“Alright,” he sighs, sinking into a nearby armchair. “I’ll just be here, waiting,” He summons a glass and bottle of Firewhisky from her drinks cart and raises an eyebrow at her again. “Punctual and waiting,”

“It’s just drinks,” she huffs, as she heads back into her bedroom. “We can be a bit late for drinks,”

“Is Longbottom meeting us there, then?” 

“Yes, he went home earlier this week,” she calls from her room. “Do you not pay attention to anything?” 

“Not unless it concerns you, darling,” he drawls, pouring himself a healthy measure and smiling at her sound of irritation. She appears again a moment later, still in her dressing gown, holding two dresses.

“Which one?” she says brusquely. “I can’t decide,”

He looks at her blankly. “Dress code is cocktail,” he says, frowning. She rolls her eyes.

“Yes, I know that thanks. I just can’t choose between these two-”

“They’re both nice,” he says, supremely unhelpfully. 

“ Yes, but…” she trails off, suddenly uncomfortable. 

“Yes but, what?”

She avoids his eyes for a minute, and then sighs. “I just don't want to look… you know,” she waves her hand impatiently. 

“No, I don’t know,” 

“It’s just - ugh, I know it’s stupid, but Lavender always looks so bloody poised and I always feel-”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” He rubs a hand over his face as she scowls at him. 

“Well, I don’t expect you to be sensitive to-”

“You’re being ridiculous,” he snaps. “How are you jealous of-”

“I don’t need to be jealous to not want to look like a complete frump next to my exes bloody gorgeous wife, do I?”

“But you won’t…” he starts, looking baffled. “You never… what are you on-”

“Oh, you’re being deliberately obtuse,” she snaps, a little shriller. He sets his glass down and stands as she heads back into her room, before swiftly grabbing her arm, yanking her back.

“Malfoy,” she huffs, “Can you just-”

“Listen very fucking carefully,” he says, placing his hands on her shoulders and fixing her with a stare that lances through her. 

She immediately looks away, huffing impatiently, trying not to notice the ludicrous uptick in her heart rate, or the lovely scent of his cologne - he always smells so bloody nice, for god’s sake - always so bloody assured while she fights off yet another meltdown and tries not to let her irritating, ever-present insecurities get the better of her.

“Granger,” he says, and she finally looks at him - taking in his perfectly tied cravat, and the sharp, elegant cut of his navy robes. “You have never, to date, looked like a frump, so I don’t imagine you’ll start tonight. In my deeply irrelevant opinion-” She opens her mouth to argue and he places a finger on her lips, silencing her. “You have yet to attend any formal function looking anything less than fucking fantastic, so I think it’s best you stop the nonsense and go and put a sodding dress on, please.”

He removes his finger from her lips and rests his hand back on her shoulder. Her heart is, she suspects, about four seconds from giving out completely, and so she nods silently and flees back to her room. 

She doesn’t see him sink back into the armchair and run a hand through his hair - before taking a deep, ever so slightly shaky breath and downing his drink in one. 

*

“Thoroughly painless, all things considered,” Draco says mildly, as they meander their way through the corridors of the castle. 

“Hmm,” she says, stifling a yawn, He shoots her a sidelong grin. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says, visibly fighting back a smile. “Nothing,” 

She huffs at him. “I know what you’re thinking,” 

“Do you, now?”

“Yes, and it’s ridiculous,”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, Professor, “

“I stay up late all the time,”

“I’m sure you do,”

“And I’m entirely capable of staying at parties-”

“I know you are,”

“So don’t even think about calling me a nana again because-”

“Because it’s barely midnight and we’re already home and you’re already yawning,” he says, grin now firmly situated. “I wouldn't dream of it,”

She rolls her eyes. “Well we can’t all be like Professor Party Boy over here,” 

He scoffs. “Hardly,”

“That’s not what the Prophet would have everyone believe,” she says, voice gently teasing. 

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t start,”

“In fact,” her voice is laced with laughter now, “I’m shocked that Witch Weekly ’s very own-” He groans, “-Most Eligible Bachelor even had the time to attend a simple cocktail party among friends at this time of year,”

Her eyes are sparkling as she stops outside the door to her rooms; the inky black kohl she applied earlier is ever so slightly smudged now, making them look even bigger than usual, and her hair has long fallen out of its chignon, loose waves falling across her shoulders. 

He can hardly stand it, in all honesty. 

“It was Most Elusive Bachelor, actually,” he drawls, leaning into her joke mainly because he doesn’t know what else to do. “And yes, I had to reschedule several things, obviously,”

“Of course,” she says, all seriousness, strolling in, leaving the door open for him. He closes it behind him, swallowing hard as she kicks off her heels and pads over to the sideboard. “I dread to think how many society debutantes were left twiddling their thumbs this evening without you to take them to some hideously exclusive supper club or something,”

He loosens his cravat, following her and trying to formulate an impossible answer- one that will allow him to remain suave, will keep the atmosphere light and jovial, and will also make clear that Witch fucking Weekly can go hang as far as he’s concerned, for putting such stupid, woefully incorrect thoughts into her head. 

“You know, I haven’t actually-”

“Do you want tea?” she cuts him off, opening a cupboard.

“Yes, please,” he says, following her and leaning against the back of an armchair, watching her closely. 

She’s humming to herself as she rifles through the tea tins, clearly done with the conversation - the subject no longer of interest to her.

The fact of which fills him with equal parts relief and utter despair. 

January

When Draco first started as Potions Professor, he was greeted by existing members of the faculty with varying levels of friendliness, scepticism and in some cases, downright hostility.

Madam Hooch fell firmly into the first camp - albeit in her trademark brisk, no-nonsense way - and his willingness to assist with coaching duties endeared him to her fairly swiftly. 

He’d always been a very good flier. 

They’d developed an easy rapport over the years; rarely talking about anything other than the sport, of course, but still - it was a pleasant sort of camaraderie they enjoyed. 

Which was why she was bemused - utterly mystified, in fact - by his churlish reaction to her latest idea for an educational initiative.

She was very proud of it actually - inviting International Quidditch players to the school to give demonstrations and coaching seminars.

She hadn’t the foggiest idea why he was so relentlessly negative about it. 

*

Hermione loathes flying - truly loathes it - but when lovely, sweet Viktor asks if she wants to take a lap around the grounds, she can’t bring herself to decline. 

“Okay,” she says, trying not look as aggrieved as she feels. “But just a quick one, alright?”

“Hermione, don’t be such a baby,” Ginny pipes up from her seat nearby. She’s sprawled out next to Draco in the stands, her feet propped up on the seat in front, decked out in her Quidditch kit and looking every inch the professional. She’s lightly flushed from the exertions of the afternoon - a demonstration alongside Viktor for some giddy first-years - and tucking into a pumpkin pasty with a level of enthusiasm to rival any of her brothers. “If you’re going to fly with anyone, it may as well be him,”

“I’d fly with you,” Hermione protests, but Ginny waves her off. 

“Nah, I’m a reckless driver - you’re in much safer hands with Krum,”

“I promise it will be fun,” Viktor is grinning. “I’ll go very slowly,”

“Well, you don’t need to go that slowly,” Hermione huffs, as Ginny laughs loudly. “Just… don’t go mad, alright?”

“Of course,” 

She clambers onto the broom, and wraps her arms around Viktor’s waist before shooting a nervous look in Ginny’s direction. Almost automatically, her eyes slide over to Draco, who has barely said a word all morning. 

It’s so unlike him not to join in the gentle teasing - particularly where her fear of flying is concerned - that she finds herself mildly concerned. 

Over the years they’ve developed a small, strangely intimate method of communicating via facial expressions, and she shoots him a barely detectable frown, hoping he reads the question in it. 

Are you okay?

He resolutely refuses to make eye contact with her. 

*

“You look like a bit like a Grindylow when you sulk,”

“I beg your fucking pardon?”

Draco has long accepted the presence of Ginny Weasley in his life - in fact, he’d almost go so far as to say she’s his favourite Weasley (damned with faint praise indeed) - but occasionally, her brutal honesty reaches such levels that it's all he can do not to hex her on the spot. 

“When you sulk. It’s unattractive,”

“Who’s sulking?”

She rolls her eyes, taking another unfathomably large bite from her pasty, before chewing slowly. 

“You can’t expect people to read your mind, you know,”

“What?”

She doesn’t reply, just gives him a look, before returning to her pasty. He bites the inside of his cheek furiously, watching as Hermione and fucking Krum glide around the grounds with a practiced ease. 

He can tell, even from a distance, that she’s clinging with all her might to the Bulgarian, and the thought of it sets his teeth on edge. 

“Can’t believe he’s still flying a fifth edition Firebolt,” he sniffs after a while. “Bloody cheapskate,”

“Don’t be such a snoot,” Ginny says mildly, having now started on a box of Chocolate Frogs. “It obviously works for him,”

“Yeah, but do you not think it’s a bit-”

“I think,” Ginny says loudly, “That what you need, is to be a bit less materialistic,” She gives him a significant sort of look.

“Are you alright?” he says dryly. “Bludger to the head, was it?” 

“Words,” she says, inexplicably. “Often work a bit better than material goods,” Another haughty look. “When it comes to communicating. I realise that might be tricky for you of all people to get your head around,”

“I don’t use material goods to communicate,” he says, irritated despite the fact he has absolutely no idea what she’s blithering on about. 

Ginny laughs, not unkindly. “Buy any earrings recently?” she asks, and he feels a warmth creeping up his neck. “Any gold earrings? Made by a Free Elves Cooperative?”

On second thoughts, maybe she isn’t his favourite Weasley. 

He opts for a dignified silence, but it’s fruitless - she lands her killer blow anyway. 

“You could try actually talking to her, you know,” she says mildly, her gaze following the line of Krum’s broom as it sweeps slowly over the opposite stands. 

It is typical, he thinks, that the only Weasley with any modicum of observational skills is the one that he’s somehow become friends with. 

A truly hideous joke from the universe. 

“Talking to who?” he says, trying for ‘disinterested’ and landing squarely in ‘pathetic’. 

She shoots him a withering glance worthy of Minerva. 

“She doesn’t know,” she adds. “I can tell you that for nothing,”

“Right,” he says, suddenly feeling rather ill. “Do let me know when you regain the ability to have a coherent conversation,”

“Oh, fuck off,” she says, eyes narrowed. Then her voice softens. “It was a lovely gift. I just think if you talk to her it leaves less room for any ambiguity, given-”

“I get all my colleagues Christmas presents,” he cuts her off quickly, unable to bear the direction of the conversation. 

Not when he can still fucking see her flying around with Krum.  

Ginny smiles, a glint in her eye. “I’m sure you do,” she says. “What did you get McGonagall?”

He pauses for a moment. “A Honeydukes biscuit selection tin,” he says finally.

To her credit, she doesn’t laugh. 

“And Hooch?” she asks.

He closes his eyes for a brief moment, sighing again. “A Honeydukes biscuit selection tin,”

“Right,” And now there is a slight hysteria bubbling on the edge of her voice. “How about Sinistra?” 

He winces - braces - prepares for impact. 

“A Honeydukes biscuit-”

Her cackle drowns out the rest of his words.

February

Madam Pomfrey was one of the less enthusiastic faculty members when Minerva took the decision to hire Draco Malfoy. She understood where the headmistress was coming from, in theory - his credentials were fairly unrivalled - but she remained unsure. 

Of course, that was years ago now, and she was more than willing to admit she had been wrong. He’d not been particularly friendly that first year - a little cold, a little aloof - but he maintained the potions stocks she needed without a single grumble. And some of his concoctions were arguably the best she’d ever used. Which seemed a fairly small trade-off for his quiet, sullen presence at the dinner table. 

She couldn’t quite pinpoint when things had changed. The shift had been gradual - a nod here, a small smile there - but something had certainly shifted noticeably in his third year of employment. 

It was funny, really - she remembered the noticeable change in his demeanour, as it rather ironically coincided with the last time she could remember being truly irritated by him. 

It was such a petty thing, really - but she enjoyed sitting next to Professor Granger at mealtimes, and he really should have asked, before he took her regular seat - and somehow made it his own.

*

"It’s not funny," she huffs, glaring at him from across the desk. "It’s disrespectful, you’d think there’s be rules in place to stop it happening to Professors in lessons-"

"It is a little funny," he drawls, lip twitching.

”You might think it’s amusing, but - it hardly engenders a level of respect for teachers if they're getting ridiculous limericks sung at them by elves in the-"

"I think it’s good," he says mildly, raising an eyebrow at her incredulous look. "Healthy, even. For them to see their Professors as actual people? Who can be… you know,"

"What?" 

"Lusted after," he says with entirely too much relish. She scoffs.

"Yes, well, you would say that," she sniffs, gesturing to the tower of chocolate boxes on his desk. He smirks back at her. 

"Don’t be jealous, Granger," he says easily. "You’ve nothing to worry about, I told you, your poem was my favourite-"

She flushes immediately. "You know full well I would never-" 

"Anyway," he brushes aside her incoming torrent of denials with a practised nonchalance.

Privately, he finds the reintroduction of the Valentine's Messengers immensely irritating - but his ire has been neutralised, over the course of the day, by the sheer amusement of watching her squirm and flinch whenever one comes within their radius.

The fact it's newly freed house elves causing the carnage - well, he's always appreciated irony.

“… more importantly- who’s your prime suspect, hm?” He continues. “A lovesick archivist from the Ministry? Or maybe a pining recent graduate, mourning their days of gazing at you longingly from across the hall? Or maybe Filch-"

"Will you shut up," she snaps. "I’ve no idea who sent it," she shifts uncomfortably in her chair, and he watches her shrewdly.

"Yes, you do," he says suddenly. 

"No, I don’t,"

"You filthy liar," he says, looking almost impressed. "You know exactly who sent it, don’t you?"

She huffs, and runs a hand through her hair distractedly. "Actually, no," she says, looking a little harassed. "The only person I’d suspect… well, I think he’d know better, given..."

Draco frowns. "How do you mean?"

"Well," she says, twisting her hands in her lap. "Viktor wrote… a few weeks ago,"

"Krum?" He says, features twisting in distaste. "You are joking?"

"Right, well, I could do a lot worse,' she scowls. "And anyway, I told him it wasn’t… that I didn’t… well, anyway I doubt he’d feel like sending me a poem at the moment,"

Draco watches her for a moment, looking suspiciously like he’s about to laugh.

"Don’t you bloody dare-"

"I'm not saying a word," he says, raising his hands in supplication. She groans, and falls forward against the desk, her next words muffled by her arms. 

"Ugh, it’s all so awkward,"

"You turned him down, then?" Draco asks. She raises her head to consider him, eyes narrowed slightly. 

"Don’t say it like that,"

"Well, did you?"

"I was nice about it,"

Draco shrugs. "He'll live," 

She scowls again. "I just really don’t want it to affect our friendship," she says after a while. "It’s such a pain, you know? Thinking you’re on the same page, and then suddenly realising…"

"Hm," he replies vaguely, shifting some parchments on his desk. “Well, if he’s got any sense he’ll respect your feelings and get over it. He’d be a moron to throw away a friendship just because his pride's a bit hurt,”

She blinks at him, slightly taken aback. "Well, yes," she says. "I suppose,"

He nods briskly. “Can’t always have everything you want,” he says, still shifting things around his desk. “Anyway,” he picks up one of the larger, heart shaped boxes and proffers it to her. "Shall we?"

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t think you can distract me with - ooh, are they the butterscotch ones?!” She takes the box from him, her eyes widening as she examines the label.

He shrugs. “No idea,” he says.

“These are my absolute favourite, you know,” she says, untying the scarlet ribbon without ceremony.

He watches her tuck in, then leans forward to pluck one of the caramels from the box, examining it for a moment.

“Well, that’s lucky,”

March

“I’m so pleased you both made it out!” yells Luna, over the thumping bass. It’s ostensibly a party to celebrate her first issue as editor of the Quibbler now her father’s retired - some pleasant drinks at the Three Broomsticks - that has somehow devolved into a detour to a club that Seamus has dragged them all to, waxing lyrical about the incredible, magical sound system and the truly lethal cocktails. 

Draco finds it easier to socialise with the golden gang these days (for one thing he doesn’t call them that to their faces) but he still finds the limits of his patience tested. He manages to extract himself after a vaguely incoherent, thoroughly excitable Dean Thomas corners him to talk about the upcoming Quidditch World Cup for approximately twenty minutes, and sits at the bar nursing some sort of Firewhisky Sour that he’s absolutely positive is going to give him horrendous heartburn. 

“Having fun?” She appears at his side after a while, a little bleary eyed, a little sweaty, with her hair a tousled mess piled up on top of her head. She clambers onto the stool next to him, leaning on the bar, and his eyes drift to her bare arms - she’s wearing a small slip of a dress, in a sort of mauve coloured fabric that sets off her tan and the honeyed tones of her hair.

He swallows. 

“Something like that,”

She rolls her eyes emphatically. “Malfoy, you are just determined to be a stick in the mud, aren’t you?”

“A what?” he frowns, but he can feel his lip quirking. She waves a hand at him, laughing. 

“Don’t worry,” she says. “It’s Muggle,”

“A stick-”

“You like to pretend you're not having a good time,” She leans towards him conspiratorially. He mirrors her movement, mouth hovering by her ear. 

“I can assure you there’s no pretence here,” 

“But I’ve got your number, Malfoy,” Her head tilts to one side, as she pulls back, regarding him. 

There’s something in her gaze that stuns him a little; a sort of effortless affection that he thinks might be a mirror of his own scrambled thoughts, and his chest tightens fractionally with something that feels suspiciously like hope. 

“A number?” He takes a sip of his drink. “A number of what, exactly?”

She does this when she’s drunk - talks in Muggle idioms that leave him utterly bewildered. It happens less and less these days - he knows most of her oft-used phrases now - but every now and then she still manages to wrong foot him. 

He finds he doesn’t mind in the slightest. 

She grins at him, then takes his drink and helps herself to a sip, before pulling a face and thrusting the glass back to him. 

“Christ, what is that?”

“No idea,” he says mildly, taking the offending cocktail and setting it back on the bar. “What number do you have, Granger?”

She blinks at him for a moment, before comprehension dawns on her stupid, drunk, beautiful face. “Oh!” She rests a hand on his forearm. “It means I know you,” she says simply, smiling at him. 

The pesky hope tightens in his chest again. 

“Oi! Why aren’t you two dancing?!” Bloody Seamus appears, Neville trailing in his wake. Draco schools his expression into one of benign disinterest, but not before he catches Neville shoot him a strangely apologetic look. 

“Dancing!” Hermione leaps down from the stool, stumbling slightly and reaching for him reflexively. His arms dart out to catch her, and she laughs easily, hauling herself upright and patting his chest. “Draco won’t dance,” she says over her shoulder to the other boys. “He’s far too cool for that,”

Her eyes are alight with mischief as she pulls away from him. Draco wants absolutely nothing more than to leave the bar and follow her to the dance floor. He wants to pull her against him and feel the warmth of her small, soft body for a little longer. Maybe duck his face into her stupid hair. 

Instead, he smiles and raises his glass. “Absolutely,” he says. “You’ve got my number, Granger,”

She laughs delightedly, before weaving her way through the crowd, Seamus following and whooping. Neville loiters for a moment. 

“Alright, Longbottom?”

“Seamus broke up with Parvati last week,” Neville says, inexplicably. “Sorry if he seems a bit… He’s just… on one, at the moment,”

Draco frowns. “Right?”

“But he wouldn’t… I mean, he knows. He wouldn’t ever try anything. You know,” He gives a nervous laugh, and Draco stares uncomprehendingly. “Anyway - I mean… he’s drunk… but he’s not an idiot,”

Draco blinks.

Before he can work out what on earth Neville is blithering on about, he’s turned and vanished into the crowd. 

April

Argus Filch prides himself on his unrivalled knowledge of the castle, and of the various ebbs and flows in misbehaviour.

He can recall, to the year - often to the month - the various trends and patterns in student wrongdoing. For instance, there was the year the Prefect's bathroom became a hotbed of illegal activity - he must have discovered half a dozen parties in their over one term. Then there was the year that for some reason, the Divination room became a magnet for fourth year hooligans. 

This year, it seems the place du jour for juvenile delinquents is, bizarrely, by the potions dungeons. He suspects attempted thievery - but Professor Malfoy seems unbothered by his concerns. He foolishly seems to think his own security charms and wards are enough to protect the various ingredients stores.

But it doesn't mean Argus cant keep an eye on things.

And anyway, he simply cannot abide loitering.  

He has to chase off a gaggle of giggling girls just that evening, overhearing their inane conversation before rounding the corner:

“Ally, you go in,”

“I can’t, I went last time!”

“But he likes you!”

Giggle, giggle, giggle.

“Maria, you go.”

“Ooh no!”

“Is he wearing his glasses?”

“I think so?”

“Oh god,”

They dissolve into a swooning mess just as he appears, before scattering, and he grumbles to himself before turning and coming face to face with Professor Granger, looking rather flushed. 

A strange pair, those two, he thinks, after grunting a hello and shuffling off. He can't understand why they're always hanging around near each others classrooms. 

*

“You're back early?” Draco asks, as Hermione flings herself into the seat across from his desk. 

"Hm," she says vaguely. 

"How was it?" Draco asks, removing his glasses and looking carefully at her. 

"Fine," she sighs. "A little awkward. Wish you'd come along,"

He rolls his eyes and opens his mouth to reply.

“I know, I know,” she waves impatiently. “No time, classes to prep, blah blah,”

“Yes, well,” he says. “Not all of us can just turn up to lessons and wow the students off the cuff by virtue of being the Golden Girl. Us mere mortals need to plan sometimes,”

She snorts. "I’m sure you’re perfectly capable of wowing the students without much effort. There were about six girls hanging around outside when I got here. Extra tuition, was it?"

“Six students?” 

“Mmhmm.” she says, looking around the room. “Quite the harem,”

“Granger, for fuck’s sake,” he mutters.

There is a group of Ravenclaw Seventh Years - all ludicrously bright of course - who have taken to hanging around after lessons. At first, Draco had put it down to the Ravenclaw mindset - always eager for knowledge - but then he’d started to notice a few too many hair flicks - and some laughs at his comments that seemed just a little too loud. 

Mortifying, in all honesty.

He's no stranger to attention - and he's dealt with his fair share of student crushes over the years - but for some reason, recently, the knowledge Granger is aware of it - has clocked it - leaves him feeling horribly uncomfortable. 

*

Draco fidgets in his chair, and she frowns a little. She's noticed this happening more and more, recently - gentle teasing that would normally wash over him, or invite a witty retort, seems to make him uncomfortable now - almost flustered - and then she in turn finds herself scrabbling for safer territory.

She can't work out why - wonders if she's annoyed him in some way - but she can't bring herself to raise it; she's a little worried what the answer might be. It twists her stomach uncomfortably - the thought that whatever delicate dynamic they've created might be upended. So instead, she sighs, and reaches for a change in subject.

"I ended up leaving before dessert," she says abruptly. He gives her an enquiring look, and she resolutely ignores the little skip in her chest as his grey eyes meet hers. 

"I just... I love Molly, I really do, but until she loses this ridiculous idea about George I just-"

"Merlin, that woman," he sighs. "She wont rest until you're married off to one of her litter, it's practically-"

"Don't be awful," she snaps. "She just... she isn't - well, it comes from a good place,"

"Clearly," he says dryly. 

"I just loathe the look she gives me sometimes, you know?" she says, shaking her head. "That... oh, are you lonely, look. You know the one I mean?"

"Not really," he says.

"Well, no, she doesn't give me it when you're around," Hermione says, considering. 

"No, she's too busy trying to hex me non-verbally," he says. "Why you thought I'd want to come to a lunch with-"

"Well, you were there last year," 

"Yes, and I'm pretty sure I said, never again-"

"It's just all... a bit more bearable with you there," she says, and then bites her lip, looking away.

A fairly pregnant pause fills the classroom for a moment, before he clears his throat. 

"Well, if you haven't had dessert," he says, affecting the voice he uses when he's trying to cheer her up, or distract her. "Kitchens?"

*

"Is it always this messy?" he says. She rolls her eyes - he made exactly the same complaint last year. 

"Well, use your wand if you-"

"No, no," Draco shakes his head, features screwed up in concentration as he spoons the cornflake-chocolate mixture into cupcake cases. "We're doing it your way - it's tradition,"

She shoots him a fond look. Their 'tradition' is barely two years old, but there's a gentleness to his tone that she finds irresistible. She nods, and reaches for the small yellow packet on the counter. 

It’s a sign of how far they’ve come - how far he’s come, really - that he doesn’t question their use of the muggle chocolate eggs. She knows Honeydukes makes something similar - ones that hatch revealing tiny fluffy chicks that squeak and hop around before vanishing in a cloud of pastel-coloured confetti - but she can’t bring herself to use them. They don't taste the same - don't smell the same. 

He'd never admit he prefers the chocolate, of course - but last year they very nearly didn't have enough to adorn all the cornflake cakes because he kept sneaking so many to 'snack on'.  

Draco is one of the few people who knows the full details of the situation with her parents. Knows exactly how they are picking their way delicately through the wreckage of the measures she took before the war. How much she has lost - how much she misses.

But they rarely talk about it. It seems insensitive, almost, to bring it up - she still has two parents at least. Though sometimes he’ll do or say something that startles her in its thoughtfulness. Their Easter tradition is one small example, but there are countless others.

Like when she mentioned that her father no longer remembered playing a silly Muggle board game featuring garishly coloured plastic hippos, and he miraculously - she’s still not sure how - produced it last year on her birthday (before proceeding to beat her soundly in several rounds.)

Small puzzle pieces of her life - of her heart - that she thought were probably lost forever, but he insists on rebuilding with new materials. 

*

"Ugh, I feel disgusting," he says, as they make their way back from the kitchens. She sighs.

"Well, I did tell you to slow down,"

"They're just so bloody moreish," he opines, pouting at her a little. She should find it irritating, but of course she doesn't.

Which is part of the problem, really.

As they round a corner, he reaches to take another one from the little platter she's floating in front of her, and she raises it higher.

"Granger, come on,"

"You just said you feel sick,"

"Yes, but that was ages ago,"

She can't help but laugh, and floats the platter higher still, above her head, stepping back as she raises her wand. She doesn't realise she's stepped into an alcove until her back hits the wall, and she realises belatedly that he's followed her, crowding her in, in his attempt to reach the platter. 

He's stood entirely too close, and he's entirely too tall, and she finds herself concentrating very hard on being normal.

She can smell his cologne on the air, undercut with chocolate - it’s a combination that absolutely, categorically shouldn't smell appealing. 

And yet. 

"You have icing sugar in your hair," he says vaguely, twisting one of her curls around his fingers. 

"Oh," she says, feeling strangely breathless. "It's fine, I’m washing it tonight,"

He nods, but doesn't move his hand away. Instead, he shifts it, deeper into her curls, and despite the strangeness of it - because it is strange, so much of what he does these days strikes her as odd - she finds herself tilting her head, leaning into his hand. She feels his thumb move slightly, brushing along her hairline by her temple, and swallows hard, feeling mildly ridiculous. 

He’s fixed her with a hard look. Totally at odds with the gentle movement of his hand - it’s almost challenging.

“Granger,” he says slowly. “Do you think-"

The sound of approaching footsteps interrupt him, and he draws his hand away, stepping back, looking almost dazed. They both turn to see Mrs Norris dart into view, followed swiftly by Filch. Draco rolls his eyes. 

"Professors," Filch nods, shooting them both a suspicious look, before his eyes travel to the platter of cornflake cakes floating above them. "Apologies, I thought you might be students-"

"Yes, well, we're not," Draco snaps. Hermione shoots him a mildly chastising look. 

"Sorry, Argus," she says, "We were just getting a snack, we'll get out of your way,"

"Actually," Draco still looks annoyed, but there's something else in his eyes now that she can't decipher. A muscle jumps, just under his jaw. "I think... I'm not tired, really," He shoots her another inscrutable look. "I'm going to check on some stuff I'm brewing for Poppy,"

"Really?" she frowns. "Now?"

"Yeah," he says, glancing back down the corridor distractedly. "Yeah, I'll just - I'll see you tomorrow,"

He turns on his heel and leaves her - standing alone with Filch, feeling utterly wrong-footed - and entirely at a loss as to why. 

May

Professor Sinistra is used to catching errant students in the Astronomy Tower. She normally offers them the reprieve of standing with her back to the stairs, and pretends not to hear them as they stumble up, so they’re able to hasten back down when they spot her with her telescope.

She makes her way up after the memorial feast, feeling the familiar twist of melancholy that often accompanies Minerva’s speech.

She hears someone making their way up the stairs and sighs, focusing back on the telescope. She doesn’t hear the usual hurried footsteps back down though. 

“Aurora?” she startles at her name, and turns to see Professor Malfoy. 

“Professor,” she inclines her head politely, trying to hide her surprise - and curiosity. It’s well known he doesn’t set foot in this particular part of the castle. 

“Sorry to bother you,” he says, a little stilted. “I’ll just-”

He makes as though to go back downstairs, but something instinctive - based in what, she’s not sure, perhaps the knowledge of him as a boy - compels her to stop him. 

“It’s fine, Draco,” she says. “You’re not interrupting,” 

He pauses, looking at her rather like she imagines a frightened animal looks at a benevolent captor, before nodding once and stepping onto the viewing platform. 

“It’s a very nice night,” she says kindly, and motions to her telescope. “Would you like…?”

He approaches her slowly, before leaning down.

“Ophiuchus is quite clear tonight,” she remarks after a moment. “Rather aptly,”

He looks at her then, and something passes over his face that makes her shiver. 

They were far too young, she thinks for the umpteenth time. She has no sufficient words of comfort - but she feels a strangely maternal instinct to try. 

She doesn’t think he should be on his own this evening. She’s surprised, really; he spends so much time with Professor Granger, she would think - but then, perhaps not. 

All things considered. 

“Apt?” he says after a moment, his voice oddly flat. 

“Hm,”

“It’s a serpent, isn’t it?”

“A serpent bearer,” she corrects gently. 

He won’t quite meet her eye - instead he chooses to focus blankly ahead into the night sky. 

“Not quite as bad, then,” he says after a moment. She frowns. 

“In what sense?” she asks, watching as his mouth twists into a faint sneer. 

“Well, we all know, Professor,” he says quietly. “What serpents are capable of,”

She says nothing for a moment - regarding her telescope as she weighs her next words carefully. 

“Indeed,” she murmurs, hearing him snort softly. “Although…” In her periphery, she sees him give her a sharp look. “It’s rather interesting… Rowle knows more, of course, but as I understand it, some Muggles actually associate this particular constellation with healing,”

She fixes him with a steady gaze.

“Fascinating, don’t you think?”

He doesn’t reply - just gives her a slightly hunted look, before looking away. 

“I’ll leave this up here,” she nods to the telescope. “Just in case,”

She’s halfway to the staircase when his quiet, hoarse voice startles her. 

“In case of what?”

She turns back to him, and takes in his profile; stark against the faint moonlight. She sighs.

“In case you want to take another look,”

*

He’s horribly, miserably drunk by the time there’s a soft knock on his door. 

“Come in,” he manages, half leaning against his sofa. He thinks for one absurd moment he might be hallucinating her in his inebriated state. 

She’s been at Potter’s of course - she always goes to Potter’s on this day. Disappears as soon as the feast is over and the speech is done. He finds he resents her for it as much as he knows he can’t blame her. She never sees him in the evening, either. She stays there late, and then sits next to him the following day at breakfast and politely ignores how hungover he always looks. 

And then after a few days, they shake back into their routine - and pretend the gulf doesn’t exist.

“Are you alright?” she says, her voice impossibly gentle. 

He freezes, the glass halfway to his mouth, and fights against his absolute worst instincts. He wants to rage at her - he finds he can hardly stand to be anywhere near so much inherent goodness - but as the bile rises and he raises his eyes to berate her, the words die in his throat. 

She looks dreadful. Disastrous hair surrounding her pinched face and red eyes. All his anger and self-pity dissolves in a burst of clarity, and before he knows what he’s doing he’s set his glass down, crossed the room and gathered her in his arms. 

She falls against him easily, making a small sound of what he hopes is relief, and buries her face in his shoulder, her arms looping tightly around his waist. She smells like apricots, which he knows is her shampoo, and vanilla, which he knows is her hand cream, and parchment, which is just her - and even in his inebriated state, he realises that to know these things is to know too much. 

Neither of them speak for several minutes. They just stand there, as the fire crackles merrily. She shifts her head slightly and he has a brief, panicky feeling that she’s pulling away, but then she just rests her cheek against his chest and takes a deep, shaky breath. 

He has absolutely no memory of holding anyone for this length of time - with this total lack of self-consciousness. She makes no move to separate, and he can think of nothing he wants to do less. At some point - he suspects in no small part due to his lack of sobriety - they sort of lean against the door, and sink to the floor, a tangle of limbs, until she’s sat in the circle of his arms, head against his chest, as he leans back against the door. 

He thinks she might be crying. 

“Next year,” she says slowly, after a long while, “I think maybe… we should spend the whole day together,"

He stares ahead, unable to speak. 

“If you want,” she adds quickly, turning to look up at him. “I know you normally want to be on your own, but I don’t think-”

“I don’t think I can,” he says hoarsely. “Just… with everyone there, I’m not sure,”

“No, stupid,” she says, facing forward and resting her head back against his chest. “Not everyone. Me. Just me,”

He frowns. “But won’t you…”

“They’ve got each other,” she says carefully, patting his outstretched leg. “I’d like to spend it with you, if you wouldn’t mind,”

He swallows an enormous lump that has inconveniently taken residence in his throat. 

“You don’t have to decide right now,” she says, and he can hear her watery smile. “You’ve got a year to mull it over,” 

He manages a weak laugh, but before he can get rid of the cursed obstruction that’s lodged it’s way into his oesophagus - before he can tell her yes, obviously yes, of course, are you mental, I want to spend every sodding day with you - she nods to herself, pats his knee again, and hauls herself up, before bidding him goodnight. 

June

Madam Pince has very little patience for the student body at the best of times, but the exam period is always particularly taxing on her nerves. For several weeks, the peaceful haven of her library is overrun - invaded, in fact - by stressed, disorganised, panicky students who all seem hell-bent on pushing her to her absolute limit. 

By midnight, she has managed to shoo away most of them - but just as she picks up her bag to leave, she hears the unmistakeable sound of voices whispering, near the Restricted Section. 

She makes her way over, tutting to herself, before she pauses, frowning.

"You didn't have to get me anything," says a man's voice - that sounds rather like Professor Malfoy's.

"You always say that," says a woman's voice - she recognises it as Professor Granger's. "Just... say thank you and leave it-"

"Alright, thank you," he sighs. "But next year, just…”

"Just what?!"

"I don’t- I just wanted us to go for dinner-"

"...What?" 

"Just… you asked me what I'd like, and I said-"

"Yes, but I thought-"

"I told you-"

"You realise you’re being a brat?"

Madam Pince closes her eyes for a moment and takes a breath. She has absolutely no time for the youngest Professors - by her estimate they have spent the past two years doing a ridiculous dance around each other, and frankly, she has no interest in bearing witness to it's inevitable conclusion. 

She turns on her heel, and sweeps out of the library without ceremony. 

It is only when she has reached her own living quarters, that a small worry creeps into her mind. It's not that she gives a damn, per se - she is, in fact, absolutely, categorically uninterested in how they choose to resolve this particular lover's tiff. 

But they'd better not damage any of the books. 

*

Draco sighs, and runs a hand through his hair distractedly. 

"I just... wanted to spend it with you," he takes a deep breath. “Just you,”

"Why?" She's having trouble keeping her breathing steady. She didn't understand what the issue was - a nice birthday supper at the pub with all his friends - but suddenly, she feels as though she might be tantalisingly close to uncovering a truth she can scarcely bear to entertain, for fear she might have the wrong end of the stick. 

"Why do you think?" 

Comprehension dawns as she watches him twitch strangely - almost as though he’s fighting the urge to turn on his heel. 

The thought that he might be trying to extract himself from the conversation immediately after his moment of honesty tempers her shock with something else - something rather inevitable, where he’s concerned - and she feels her irritation, unreasonable and potent as Firewhisky, bubble to the surface. 

"How exactly was I supposed to know-"

"Oh, I don’t know, maybe because I’ve been hideously obvious about it for months-"

"In what world have you been obvious, you’ve been anything but-"

"What do you mean, are you seriously-" 

"-running around town with all sorts-"

"-haven’t been on a sodding date for months-"

"-never made your intentions clear-"

"Who else am I buying jewellery for, you absolute idiot-" 

"I’m not a bloody Legilimens, for goodness sake-"

"Right, well, I’m telling you now-"

"And what are you telling me exactly?"

He stares.

*

The moment his lips meet hers, a realisation dawns on her.

She has been living, for a while now, with a longing so very entrenched in her being she barely registers it any more. The knot in her chest has taken up residence for so long she barely knows any different - until his arms wrap around her waist and she leans up on her toes to kiss him back while he makes a pleased, slightly desperate noise into her mouth. Then she becomes aware of the knot. 

Because miraculously, it loosens. 

It’s impossible, really, to fully process how good it feels. It’s an overwhelming, overarching sensation of relief, but it’s cut through with something frantic. There’s a feverish nature to the way they touch each other; an urgency as he pushes her against the bookshelf and she anchors her hands in his hair. 

"We should-stop," she gasps against his mouth. "We should go-"

"Shut up," he says, kissing a line down her throat. "Just stop being such a goody-"

"You shut up," she says - but she’s still kissing him, even as she pushes him towards the door. 

*

He has absolutely no memory of how they make it back to her rooms, but somehow, they manage it. 

“Oh god,” she gasps, arching back into the door. “Oh god, oh god, oh god,” 

She yanks at his hair, forcing him to meet her gaze, and to his consternation she looks furious.

“What?”

“Why are you-“ she huffs, “I mean, how - how are you-“

“What?!”

"You’re so good at that,” she gasps, before pushing his head back down to her chest. He allows himself one enormous smirk before continuing his ministrations, rolling his eyes at her barely coherent commentary, as he flicks his tongue over the thin lace of her bra. 

“-no business being this good, fucking ridiculous, we could have been doing this the whole time, how on earth did you-"

“Granger, could you-"

“Don’t call me that,” she snaps. “We’re about to have sex, you can use my bloody name,”

He’s absolutely positive his heart stops beating for a second. Slowly, in a daze, he sets her back down on the ground, and leans one arm against the door above her head, breathing raggedly.

She stares up at him, frowning.

“Aren’t we?” She adds, suddenly looking uncharacteristically unsure of herself.

He nods, not quite trusting himself to speak. 

"You don’t seem particularly enthusiastic about it," she sniffs.

He closes his eyes and counts to seven. When he opens them she’s still frowning at him.

"Well?" She says, looking annoyed. "Do you want to? Because I do but I certainly don’t want-"

"Shut up," He can barely think as he pins her against the door again and swallows her retort.

Before long her blouse is off and she’s pushing him towards her couch. They embark on a bizarre sort of wrestling where she attempts to push him onto it and he half crouches to try and pick her up, causing them both to stumble.

"What the fuck-"

"What are you doing?!"

"I’m trying to get you to the bedroom, are you thick?!"

“There’s a perfectly good sofa right-"

“The first time we do this I want to be in a bed-”

“For goodness sake, why do you have to be so Victorian about everything-”

“It’s not Victorian to want to-”

“You’re just wasting time -”

“For Merlin’s sake-”

He finally manages to lift her up, and she makes a thoroughly ridiculous noise of protest before he latches his mouth to the base of her neck and carries her to the bedroom, depositing her onto the bed with a huff while she glares at him. 

“Right,” she says, shucking off her jeans with admirable speed. “Heaven forbid the lord of the manor doesn’t get his way-

“Oh my god,” he says, yanking his t-shirt over his head and unbuckling his belt. “Will you just shut up,”

*

Afterwards, they lie in her bed, Draco leaning against the headboard as he shoots her sidelong glances. She’s tangled under the cream silk sheets, a look of faint surprise on her face, breathing deeply - and she hasn’t spoken for the last five minutes. 

It doesn't strike him as a particularly good sign. 

“Would you like me to…” he gestures towards the door. As he speaks, she twists towards him; the movement has the pleasing effect of tugging the sheet down, exposing more of the soft, caramel skin across the top of her breasts. His throat suddenly feels very dry. 

“Not particularly,” she says, frowning a little. “Though I suppose… it might be a bit… tricky if anyone realises you’re here,”

“Everyone’s asleep,” he says carefully. “I imagine we’ve got three or four hours grace period, at least,”

“Well, then,” she says, and he thinks he catches the ghost of a smile on her face. “You don’t need to run off quite yet, unless you want to,” 

He shifts onto his side to face her more fully. “I don’t want to,” he says. “This bed’s far more comfortable than mine, I’ve been absolutely shafted by Minerva, she’s honestly the most-“

Whatever Minerva is remains a mystery - Hermione quite suddenly wraps a hand around the nape of his neck and yanks him down for a kiss. He obliges at once, shifting to tug her closer, sliding over her and pushing one of his legs between hers over the sheets. 

*

She intends it to be a swift kiss - to shut him up more than anything really, as it seems like he's babbling - but then he moves over her, and does something very interesting with his tongue, and pushes one of his taut, muscled thighs between hers, and suddenly she finds she doesn't really want to stop. 

She arches her body up, sliding a hand into his hair, while the other grips his bicep, and just as she starts to feel breathless - to think there is only one real conclusion in sight, though surely he can’t be ready to go again so soon - he pulls away. Hovering above her, propped on one elbow, warm breath ghosting over her face, while she clears her throat, and tries to gather her thoughts.

In some ways, Draco kisses exactly how she thought he would. Because of course, she has thought about it. Assured, a little languid - frustratingly good at it. But then, there is something else there that surprises her. A rawness - something rougher around the edges that she isn't expecting. 

Like earlier, shortly before she’d had her second orgasm of the night, when she’d looked at him, in all his sweat-soaked, breathless glory - chest muscles rippling and hair deliciously rumpled -and he’d kissed her in a way that seemed to suggest a thrilling loss of control. 

“This was… probably a bit silly of us, wasn’t it?” She says, hating the nervousness creeping into her voice. 

“Probably,” he says dryly. “Please don’t be a bloody Gryffindor about it,”

She rolls her eyes. “What does that mean?”

“I’m not sure, really,” he says, smirking a little. “Sounds frightfully dull, though,”

“You’re an arse,” she says, pulling him down again. She can still feel his smirk as he kisses her.

Infuriating man.

*

Draco wakes in the morning to sunlight filtering in through a gap in the curtains. He’s wrapped around Hermione, her warm, soft body pressed against him, her back against his chest. He shifts slightly, moving his face out of her hair, and she makes a small, sleepy noise.

His arm tightens around her, apparently of its own accord.

“Granger,” he murmurs. “I should probably get back to my room, before…”

“Mhmm,” she says sleepily, and he finds he doesn’t want to leave at all. “Alright, good luck,”

He ducks his head down, pressing his lips against the junction of her shoulder and neck briefly. She still smells like her perfume - only now it's undercut with the scent of his own cologne - and the implication of it makes him grin, nipping gently at her shoulder. She makes a pleased sound, and unfurls against him; he can feel her body stretching out, pressing into him - and he is suddenly, painfully aware of their total lack of clothes. 

“I mean,” he says, letting his hand drift up slightly from her waist, enjoying her soft intake of breath. “I could probably stay another half an hour or so. Wouldn’t make much of a difference, I imagine,”

“Half an hour?” She says dryly. “That seems ambitious,”

“Don’t be rude, witch,” he says, but he’s already tugging at the sheets tangled around them, shifting his body against hers, pleasantly achy from the previous night’s activities. She presses against him again, and he smiles at the impatience that is positively radiating off her. 

A loud knock on the main door freezes them both in their tracks. 

“Hermione?” Minerva McGonagall - forever and always the absolute bane of his life - is in the corridor. Her voice carries through to the bedroom. “Apologies, are you awake?”

“Just a minute!” She calls back, sounding remarkably calm. She sits up, shooting him a slightly alarmed look, and half-falls out of the bed, seizing her dressing gown and yanking it around herself, before hurrying into the sitting room, closing the door to her bedroom behind her. 

*

"Good morning!"

Hermione looks unusually flustered - she's usually one of the earlier risers at the weekend.

Odd.

"I just wanted to check..." Minerva starts, and then pauses. Over Hermione's shoulder, she can see a blouse, draped unceremoniously over the couch - and nearby, a pair of dragonhide boots are strewn on the rug. 

The boots are rather large.

Minerva clears her throat. 

"Will you still be accompanying the students to Hogsmeade today?" She asks carefully. "We missed you at breakfast this morning?"

She declines to add who else was also missing at breakfast.

"Oh!" Hermione flushes brilliantly. "Yes, of course, I just overslept, I'll be-"

"Well, the thing is," Minerva bites the inside of her cheek. "Aurora is keen to head in anyway, as is Poppy, and so I rather thought you might like the afternoon to yourself? Unless you'd like to come along, of course," she adds. 

Hermione glances, for the briefest of moments, over her shoulder. 

"Oh, well..." She worries at her lip. "I suppose... I do have rather a lot of reading to finish up - planning next year's syllabus, you know,"

Minerva nods. "Of course," she says. "Don't trouble yourself - there's more than enough staff for today,"

"Well, alright then," says Hermione, smiling. "Thank you, Minerva,"

"Quite alright," she says. Hermione gives her another small smile before closing the door. 

*

Professor McGonagall pauses outside, just long enough to hear a door open, and a low voice murmur something, followed by muffled laughter. 

A tiny smile tugs at the corner of her lip, as she rolls her eyes, and leaves them to their own devices.