Chapter Text
Draco Malfoy was bloody everywhere. At this moment, he was at the back of the library, sitting at Hermione's desk. Well, it wasn't hers as such, but she was there so often it may as well have been. Was there any part of her life he hadn’t infiltrated? When Hermione returned for their eighth year, she hadn't expected to be sharing the Head Student role with him of all people, and while she hadn't expected the old Malfoy—sneering Mudblood her way—she certainly hadn't expected this. Apparently he’d taken McGonagall’s directive to work as a team quite literally.
Hermione marched forward, buoyed by her determination. But as she approached, her frustration dampened at noticing how Malfoy concentrated on his reading, his elbow on the desk, chin in his palm. He appeared almost gentle, perhaps not even irritating.
What was wrong with her? It was Malfoy! He was always irritating.
Hermione slammed her bag onto the desk. “You know, I'm getting awfully sick of seeing your pointy face everywhere I go.”
Malfoy snapped his head up, revealing his smirk. He hung an arm over the back of his chair. “Come on now, I’m not nearly as pointy as I used to be.”
“Well, less-pointy Malfoy, you’re in my spot.”
“Yours? There are plenty of free spaces, Granger. You don't need to sit here.”
“You know perfectly well this is my favourite desk. We've done this dance before.”
“Have we?” he asked with a tilt of his head. His eyes flicked down her form unabashedly. “I think I would distinctly remember your dancing.”
Hermione bristled. Why was he still smirking at her? Was he attempting to flirt? No doubt a new tactic to frighten her away. Well, it wasn't going to distract her.
Hermione took the seat opposite Malfoy, planting the tip of her shoe onto his chair and directly between his legs.
He reared back as he gripped the edge of the desk. “Watch the goods, Granger.”
Hermione smiled sweetly, then took to unpacking her parchment and quill from her bag. From the corner of her eye, she saw Malfoy’s head begin to dip lower, his gaze moving beneath the desk.
“Hey!” Hermione quickly dropped her foot from his chair, clamping her legs shut. “Being a pervert will not make me leave.”
“I was only pretending to be a pervert to keep my bollocks from being squished.”
Hermione gave a half-hearted eye-roll.
As she began scribbling on her parchment, Malfoy’s glare scorched the top of her head; but soon she became so engaged in her essay that it was easy to forget he was there. All Hermione knew was that she was in a pleasant state detailing the properties of the Impervius Charm, enfolded in Malfoy’s sharp, fresh citrusy scent, and strangely enjoying the sporadic tap of his foot against hers beneath the desk. She might have even mourned the loss of the feeling as she went to search for a book.
After visiting at least a dozen shelves, Hermione held three books in her arms with another two floating alongside. As soon as she placed them into a neat pile upon the desk, she discovered Malfoy smirking again. It quickly curved into a wicked smile.
Before she caught on, her books jumped up like they had somewhere to be. They hopped off the desk and scuttled away in spider-like fashion, all wending and weaving in different directions as she exclaimed a pathetic, “No!”
Hermione went to chase after them, but quickly abandoned her efforts at seeing how far they had already scurried away. She lifted her wand, ready to Accio, but she couldn’t recall their specific titles. If she simply Accio'd a charms book, she’d be met with enough literature to bring about her death.
Hermione puffed a frustrated sigh towards the ceiling. She took a deep breath before she faced Malfoy and his smugness.
“You know what? You can have this space.” She lurched forward and stuffed her roll of parchment into her bag, then stoppered her ink and sent it flying in next. “My dorm is quiet, comfortable, and absent of you.”
His smug expression fell.
A perk of the Head Girl role meant Hermione was provided her very own living arrangements with entirely nil distractions; she was simply perpetuating old habits in being here. She didn’t need the library, and she didn’t need Malfoy’s silly games. But she did need at least one book before she could leave him to his precious desk.
As she moved between the shelves, perusing the silver and golden book spines, she was vaguely aware that Malfoy had followed behind. Just as she pushed onto her tiptoes and reached for a book, it glided down from the shelf and took a sharp turn straight into Malfoy’s grip.
“Malfoy!” She spun around. “Have you returned this year just to taunt me?”
His chuckle vexed her to no end. With one hand in his pocket, he ambled towards her. “Or challenge you, perhaps?”
Hermione shifted back a step as he crowded closer, her shoulders and bum meeting the hard edges of the bookshelves. “I refuse to let you win whatever silly game it is you're playing.”
The book in Malfoy’s hand drifted out and up, slipping itself neatly into the spot he’d retrieved it from, and Hermione dearly hoped the slight awe she experienced at witnessing Malfoy’s precise wandless and wordless magic wasn’t written on her face.
Malfoy caged her against the wall, one hand on the shelf beside her head, the other on her waist. The heat of him bled through her shirt and, momentarily, she teased the thought of his fiery touch beneath her skirt. He was irritatingly correct. He was far less pointy than he had been. Now he wore his hair in that perfect way that fell over the side of forehead, and the lines of him were all angular and attractive. It was bewildering to think about the wizard in such a way.
“You're not going to let me?” His sweet breath brushed along her lips, causing her cupid’s bow to tingle.
Desire sparked below her navel. He darted out his tongue to wet his lips, drawing attention to his utterly delicious mouth, then he lowered his head a touch, taking a path as though he were mere moments away from kissing her. Her inner walls clenched for a beat as if to underscore how she very much enjoyed the thought.
What was getting into her? This was Malfoy. He was previously nothing but sneers, and since returning to Hogwarts, nothing but snark.
Hermione firmed her chin.
Malfoy simply smirked, seeing through her uncaring facade.
A facade ready to crack as her breaths hastened and her cheeks flamed. Could he see her desire? Her centre throbbed with excitement at experiencing him in this way: his attention up close and unyielding, the thin ring of grey around his large pupils, the way his eyes danced between hers before snagging on her lips. The pressure of his fingers on her waist firmed with every fresh beat.
Although Hermione no longer held ill will towards Malfoy, she had also convinced herself she didn’t care about him. But faced with him in this manner, she couldn’t remember why she had felt the need to be uncaring. Malfoy—like this—was beginning to look like everything she had ever wanted.
And he knew it.
“But will you let me kiss you?” he asked quietly.
Hermione was bereft of words.
Amusement was everlasting in Malfoy’s expression as he shifted his touch to her cheek and his mouth to hers. A sweet, gentle press. He retracted only enough to read her eyes.
Hermione whispered, “But you…”
Malfoy stole the last syllable. His lips were on hers, and this time she couldn’t keep from melting into the feel of him. Her head tilted back against the shelf, mouth opening wider for his insistent minty tongue. Desire shot through her abdomen. She was kissing Malfoy. Kissing Draco Malfoy! She was dizzied by the feel of his soft lips on hers and his warm touch working along the swell of her breast. But then she discovered some sense beneath the fog of lust and recalled exactly where they were.
Hermione nudged him back a little. “Madam Pince will see us,” she whispered.
He smirked. “Then Madam Pince is in for a good show.”
Malfoy captured her lips again. He kissed her deeply and all-consuming, the slide of his tongue greedy, the press of his body against hers divine, and the hardened length against her belly telling. For the first time in her life, Hermione utterly, truly, hopelessly failed. She failed to care that they could have been discovered at any moment.
Malfoy’s thumb edged her nipple. His knee wedged between her legs. She yanked his shirt from his trousers and fumbled with his zipper until it was undone. She wanted to feel him in her hands.
But Hermione’s mind was in a tizzy with another stupid realisation.
For these past several months, Malfoy had always been nearby at the breakfast table, at her side in Transfiguration class, joining her with his own novel as she read in the common room, and now he was kissing her in the library…
Hermione broke away. “Wait a minute, do you fancy me?”
Malfoy’s hands dropped away, and she immediately regretted her question.
“Fancy you?” He recoiled a step and scoffed. “I don’t fancy you, Granger.”
“The way you kissed me just now said otherwise.”
“You kissed me back!”
“Did I?” She crossed her arms, determined not to let him see how she mourned the loss of his weight against her. “Last I recall, I was searching for a book and your lips were on mine.”
“Don’t do that.” He shook his head.
“Do what?”
“Play games.”
Hermione smirked through her inner turmoil. She much preferred his hands on her breasts rather than that panicked look he currently had about him.
Malfoy shot her a glare verging on a sneer reminiscent of their childhood. His chest rose and fell dramatically with his breaths.
Down beside his thigh, he flicked his wand and the books on the shelf behind Hermione tumbled, all somehow missing her but landing in an inconvenient mess in the spare space around her feet.
Without a word, Malfoy stalked off.
Hermione was left standing amongst a pile of old books, dust clinging to the air and her fingertips held to her lips, recalling how delicious he had just felt against them. Why had she said anything? The pulsing ache at her centre felt an awful lot like regret.
***
What was Granger talking about? He didn’t fancy her. Perhaps he didn’t mind the way she looked these days—his stomach did an odd flip-flop thing every time he saw her—but that didn’t mean he had any feelings for her. She was simply pleasing to the eye. So pleasing that his gaze clung to her whenever they were in the same room, and since returning to Hogwarts he couldn’t seem to stop thinking about the witch. And then he’d felt that overwhelming need to kiss her in between the bookshelves.
But that didn’t equate to feelings, did it?
Draco lay in bed, and despite the fact he’d now been there for several hours, he was unable to draw his thoughts away from Granger.
Fancy her! He laughed to himself.
Draco imagined what might’ve happened if she hadn’t broken their kiss to ask him that ridiculous question. As he imagined his fingers delving into her tight, wet centre, his cock quickly stood to attention, and he couldn’t just ignore it, could he? Draco wrapped his hand around his length and stroked while his imagination turned into fucking Granger against the bookshelves in the back of the library as they attempted to hold in their moans to avoid being caught. His strokes picked up speed. He fisted his cock until he shot thick strands over his bare stomach and needed to smother a groan in the back of his throat.
Okay, so maybe he had some sort of feelings for her… and they were pleasant. And maybe it simply wasn’t due to the fact she’d filled out nicely over the years. He enjoyed when she became all flustered and irate from his jokes; he enjoyed watching her in the library with her nose buried in a book, and he enjoyed the way her eyes lit up with curiosity when posed a question in class.
But that didn’t mean he fancied her, did it?
Draco covered his arms across his face.
Fuck.
He needed to detract from her suspicions. He needed something big that would rattle Granger and cause her to realise—unequivocally, in no uncertain terms—that he didn’t fancy her. At all.
***
Hermione opened her dormitory door and stalled mid-step. There was a new door just outside that certainly hadn't been there before. Identical to hers except for a pretentious decoration: three silver snakes forming an M. She dropped the bag from her shoulder and, as it fell to the floor with a dull thud, she spun to check that her room was, in fact, still there. One bed, an armoire, a single desk and chair, and a window with a view of nothing but drizzle—all accounted for.
Whirling back around, Hermione narrowed her eyes. Truly, was there any other possibility?
“Malfoy!”
She idly tapped her wand against the doorframe and glanced at her new surroundings. Nothing except a bare wall at her right and a length of hallway to her left; approximately eight dormitory doors suddenly missing.
“Malfoy, get out here!”
Finally, he revealed himself nearly ready for the day, his white shirt untucked and green and silver tie undone around his neck. His grey eyes roved down her form in a preposterously leisurely manner, causing her to feel naked under his gaze. Causing her to relive last night in the library, which she was desperately attempting to ignore. Hermione’s glare momentarily wavered, eyes moving to his two undone shirt buttons and the peek of his chest.
“Why are you screeching at this ungodly hour?”
Hermione huffed. “What have you done?”
“First of all, nothing, and second of all, why do you assume it was me?”
“Because only last night I went to bed with my room situated at the end of the eighth year girls’ hallway, half a dozen doors ahead, and now there seems to be only one door in this entire hallway and it’s yours.”
He slipped his hands into his pockets and shrugged lightly.
“Malfoy!”
His expression suddenly gave way to a grin. “Okay, fine. I thought it would be funny.” He gave a lax laugh. “And it is. Look at you—you're all puffed up with irritation; even your hair is bigger.”
Ignoring the jibe (she had successfully used a de-frizzing potion just this morning, thank you), Hermione’s frown deepened to overcompensate for her awe. “How in Godric's name did you even do this? It’s extremely advanced magic!”
Malfoy folded his arms across his chest and leant against the doorframe, grin swapped for a smug smirk. “It is extremely advanced.”
Without budging her scowl, Hermione Accio'd her bag into her grasp and slung the strap over shoulder. “Put it back.”
“Since when do I simply do as you say?”
“Put it back or I’m going to tell McGonagall.”
“Oh, you're going to snitch on me? How childish, Granger.”
She began down the hallway. “Fix this by lunch or you’ll have worse to contend with than McGonagall.”
“Weaselbee? Scarhead? Your half-giant friend?”
“Me,” she said past her shoulder, shooting a stinging hex to his bare foot as she went.
She heard Malfoy hiss through his teeth.
At first, when she'd discovered Malfoy had been assigned Head Boy, Hermione thought it was a show of goodwill from McGonagall to further Hogwarts’ new mission of unity. Then, she assumed she’d been selected as Head Girl in the event he was entirely useless. Now, as she was realising, he was nothing of the sort. She suspected he was always clever and perhaps his previous cruelness and foray into dark arts concealed that, but this form of magic would have taken planning, skill and determination. Didn't he have more important things to do?
Hermione shook her head. How had he possibly architected an entirely separate wing? And without her hearing a peep? She padded along the blue and bronze hand-knotted rugs in the hall, weaving between the mish-mash of plush green and yellow sofas and armchairs, towards the portrait exit. The place was an ill-fitting mix of all the house colours and quirks that had once made their spaces wholly Gryffindor, Slytherin, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw: situated in the dungeons with squishy furniture, tall fireplaces, docile green plants along the windows with an underground view of the lake, and a portrait of a sphinx guarding the entrance who preferred an answer to a riddle rather than a password.
Those who had returned to undertake their N.E.W.Ts now shared classes and a common room in the name of inter-house unity. And unite they did. Neville with Pansy, Blaise with Luna, and Theo with everyone. In all her years at Hogwarts, Hermione had never witnessed so much cross-house collaboration. The students all held a newfound respect for each other after fighting a war. Even the Slytherins.
Honestly, she should have expected as much. While Hermione spent her summer getting over a miserably handled break up with Ron, shagging an older neighbour, and then sometimes acting as an awkward third wheel on outings with Harry and Ginny, Malfoy and his mother were conducting their comeback tour. It involved a summer of charitable donations to the tune of a million galleons, at least three dozen apologies to those mistreated, victimised, or wronged by the Malfoy family, and one strategic photograph of Narcissa no longer wearing her wedding rings on the cover of The Daily Prophet.
Even so, it was a surprise when Malfoy apologised to her during their first run-in on the Hogwarts Express. Hermione was so taken aback by the exchange, she simply nodded. Then, at their first eighth year party, he pulled her aside and apologised again, as though she hadn’t heard him the first time. At the next party, he overtly eyed her across the common room before later telling her that without Harry and Ron hanging off her side, she was now enjoyable to look at. But Hermione had brushed that remark off on the Firewhiskey consumed that night, not his newfound remorse.
Truly, everything she thought she knew of the reformed Death Eater was challenged each day since returning to Hogwarts, and extremely advanced room-adjusting, stone-moving, space-manoeuvring magic was now perhaps the most bewildering occurrence. Even more so than that kiss.
Pansy emerged from the other hallway and stalled in place, her dark brows furled beneath her sharp fringe. “Where did you come from? And where does that new hallway go?”
Hermione tutted as she came to meet her. Without Harry and Ron at Hogwarts—who had jumped at the opportunity to train as Aurors—Pansy had become a mainstay. “Malfoy took it upon himself to rearrange our dorms into our very own quarters overnight.”
She snorted a laugh. “Well, that's one way to get in your knickers.”
“Pansy!”
“What? No need to act so appalled. He's good fun and there's no harm in having a little bit of said fun in between your studies.”
“I'm here for my N.E.W.Ts, not sex.” Besides, she could get enough of that from her neighbour if she needed; and probably even from Ron if she was desperate.
“You're still going to get one hundred N.E.W.Ts, Hermione. May as well get an orgasm or two in between.”
“Save your breath. Nothing you say is going to sway me.”
“Are you sure? He's…” She held out her palms at a reasonable length, at least six inches if Hermione were to guess.
“Good Godric. Can we talk about anything else?” Hermione rubbed her brow. “How's Neville?”
“Well, he's also—” She held her hands up again at the same length.
“Pansy! That's it! That's my cock quota for the day.”
Hermione jumped at hearing the smooth voice behind.
“Cock quota?” Malfoy was suddenly at her side and they now walked three astride. “Tell me more about this quota, Granger. Perhaps I can help you meet it.”
Despite the fact she was a little tickled by his response, Hermione made a vague eurgh noise and powered away, hearing Pansy ask Malfoy, “What is this new sleeping arrangement, then?”
For a wizard who certainly didn’t fancy her, he was going about it the wrong way.
Suddenly, Malfoy was everywhere: a short distance away from her dormitory, at the table she chose for meals, and seated directly beside her in potions class.
As Slughorn expounded on the properties of Ashwinder eggs, Hermione was unusually tense, waiting for Malfoy to say or do something entirely inappropriate. The situation was not helped by the fact his foot nudged hers every now and then as he adjusted beneath the desk. Hermione needed to actively concentrate on the Professor's words.
“Now, a little revision!” announced Slughorn. “Can anyone tell me the ingredients of Felix Felicis?”
Hermione's left arm shot up, not wanting to relinquish the position of her inked quill in her right.
“Juice of a squill bulb,” said Malfoy.
“Precisely, Mr Malfoy.”
Hermione dropped her arm and sent him an unimpressed look. Malfoy’s satisfaction was plain.
“And who can tell me the next two ingredients?”
Hermione's hand propelled into the air. She may have lifted off her chair a centimetre or two.
“Murtlap and then a tincture of thyme,” said Malfoy.
“Well done, Mr Malfoy.”
This time, Hermione lowered her arm with a huff. Any other teacher would never allow their students to hurl answers towards them. Malfoy knew what he was doing; and it was irking her in the way he no doubt intended.
“And finally,” began Slughorn, “can anyone tell me…”
Sliding an arm along the top rail of Hermione's chair, Malfoy leant in and whispered in her ear, “Go on, I'll let you have the next one.”
“Oh, you'll let me?” she said. “Generous.”
“For selfish reasons, though. I miss seeing you quiver on the spot and do that adorable little bounce thing.” Malfoy’s low whisper incited a relay of sensations: a tickle in her ear, a shiver down her spine, and the tightening of her nipples. If that weren’t enough to overstimulate her senses, his hand swallowed Hermione’s where it laid upon the desk. He held it up in the air, then slid his fingers down her arm, leaving a tingle beneath her shirt as he went. He left his touch upon her shoulder.
“Yes, Miss Granger?”
“Um,” she began.
Her thoughts were askew. A pulse between her legs was distracting from anything she ever knew about potions.
“Uh.”
Malfoy’s quill scribbled. He scratched a line, catching her attention: Occamy eggshell.
“Occamy eggshell,” she read aloud.
“Indeed, Miss Granger.”
After another half an hour of attempting to ignore Malfoy, the entire classroom cleared out for lunch. Only the two of them remained and, as Hermione sat in an odd stupor attempting to gather her sensibilities, Malfoy lounged with one arm slung over the back of her chair and his attention wholly on her.
“You've finally realised you can’t beat me intellectually, so you’re using cheap and childish tactics, is that it?” Hermione swivelled to face him, her knees pressing into his thigh as she went. “Are you even here to study for your N.E.W.Ts? All you’ve done is annoy me.”
“Why can't I do both?” His eyes glinted with a deviousness she’d only witnessed for the first time last night. He was infuriatingly handsome, even with that irritating manner of speaking as though he was about to remind her his father would be hearing about this.
“If I don’t receive all seven N.E.W.Ts because of your meddling—”
“If you don’t receive even one, the Minister for Magic is still going to fall at your feet and give you any role you desire.” He turned in towards Hermione, his knees pushing against hers. “You don’t even need to be here.”
“You’re right.” Hermione pushed herself up and snatched her bag to catch her ink and parchment. “I choose to be here, and you’re making a mockery of my final year of education.”
Malfoy barked a laugh. “Making a mockery? Please, Granger. If you think that’s the case, you haven’t seen anything yet.”
Hermione made for the door. “Put the bloody dorms back,” she threw behind as she walked.
“Since when do I just do as you say, Granger? I know everyone has returned eager to please the Golden Girl, but I can't bring myself to be another guileless fool.”
At the doorway, Hermione spun to see him.
Malfoy was wandering closer.
“Don't call me that.”
“How about darling? Love?” He narrowed his eyes and with a budding smirk. “Minx.”
Hermione made an exasperated groan as she turned on her heel and rounded the corner. What the hell had gotten into him?
“Or perhaps you can just tell me about that cock quota of yours?” he called out as she walked down the corridor.
Hermione's eyes flew open at seeing Slughorn ambling towards her. Perhaps he hadn't heard that? And perhaps he hadn't noticed how her cheeks had flushed. The last thing she wanted was to tarnish her Professors’ impressions of her—she had come back to excel, and that included excelling in the eyes of every single teacher.
“Miss Granger,” Professor Slughorn said with a nod, but Hermione registered how his gentle smile crumpled with poorly disguised discomfort. Was she just imagining that his cheeks were pinker than usual?
After he had dawdled by, Hermione viewed Malfoy standing at the entrance to the classroom with his hands in his trouser pockets, a broad grin and a distracting tongue teasing at his tooth. A man looking far too pleased with himself.
Hermione was certain her cheeks would fail to return to their normal temperature (and likely colour) for the rest of the afternoon. Good Godric. What must Slughorn think of her?
After a day of classes, Hermione didn’t have the energy to concern herself with her altered sleeping arrangements. Instead, her energy was expended on homework in the library and then reliving her mortification as she walked towards Slughorn with the word ‘cock’ so freshly ringing in the air. What did Malfoy possibly want to achieve from all of this? And why wouldn’t he just change the bloody dorms back? Undoubtedly, she could sort it out herself, but it was the principle of the matter!
As Hermione returned from the library and entered the common room, she noticed Malfoy walk into their new hallway and she was struck with the overwhelming urge to meet him on his level. Following behind with silenced footsteps, she quickly magicked her skirt, shortening it until the pleated grey was mid-thigh. Then she reduced it another centimetre or two for good measure.
Malfoy was holding a hand to his doorknob when he spotted her. It slipped away as he did a double take. “What are you…” His eyes stuck to her skirt. “What the hell are you wearing?”
“My uniform. Don’t tell me you’ve just realised we all wear the same thing every day?”
“That is not what the other girls are wearing.”
“Hm.” As she met her door, she purposely fumbled her wand, making it clatter to the floor, then took her time in retrieving it so that the end of her skirt rode up as she bent over.
“Granger,” he said, his tone warning and eyes blown wide. “That is a dirty tactic.”
She crossed her arms. “Put the dorms back.”
“Oh, this was about the dorms, was it? Because I was under the impression this was some sort of display to get me in there with you.”
Hermione laughed, long and mocking, and as Malfoy narrowed his eyes, she laughed over again. She left him in the hallway with an expression halfway between gormless and offended. Perhaps that was enough to get back at him—giving him hope. Besides, it wasn’t as though she had shown him anything too intimate, maybe just the slight curve of her arse cheek and the black lace underwear she had worn today. It would do until she devised a better plan for retaliation.
But Malfoy’s retaliation arrived first; and apparently he had found inspiration in her skirt trick.
The next morning he emerged wearing his shirt untucked and undone, tie hung loosely around his collar, and the length of wonderfully lean muscle in his chest and abdomen on display. When the hell had that happened? She expected him to be scrawnier and certainly hadn’t expected the effort it would take not to glance down at the fair strip of hair from beneath his navel, drawing a perfect line for her tongue to glide down—
“Oh please,” she said, “you think that fazes me?”
“I can tell it does, Granger. Your eyes keep sliding south.”
“It’s the luminescence of your horribly pale skin. A bit like a full moon. I can’t look away.”
“Do you also salivate when you look at the moon?”
She sighed curtly as she turned, but Malfoy had spun at the same time and they sandwiched themselves between the narrow walls.
“Malfoy! Did you transfigure the hallway narrower?”
“I'm just too broad-shouldered and burly, Granger. Hadn’t you noticed?”
“You truly just believe what you want to, don't you?” she scoffed.
They attempted to forge ahead. Hermione’s shoulders twinged uncomfortably between the solid wall and Malfoy’s equally solid bicep.
“What happened to polite pureblood etiquette?”
There was a beat in which he appeared to consider her question.
“No, you're right,” said Malfoy, and the pressure dropped away as he stepped backward.
But as she walked on, it was suspiciously quiet behind. Not a single footstep. Glancing past her shoulder, she found his head angled, eyes lingering.
“Somehow, I don't think pureblood etiquette involves staring at my arse, Malfoy.”
“You’re the one that brought my attention to your arse, Granger.”
He smirked as he walked to meet her, his buttons fixing themselves together and depriving Hermione of a sight she quickly realised she wanted to see again.
They walked to the Great Hall side by side, sharing a taut silence. Then they sat at the same table, but with at least half a dozen eighth years between them. This did nothing to stop them from flinging sharp glares at one another.
The owl post soon dropped in, parcels and letters flying down to every other student.
A red envelope hovered in front of Malfoy.
He was entirely oblivious to the Howler, concentrating on his spoon pushing about his porridge.
Pansy gasped. “What—oh no.”
Hermione rolled her lips together in preparation for what was to come.
The Howler unfurled and burst with a barrage of volume. “WHAT KIND OF GENTLEMAN LEAVES A WOMAN IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT! NOT ONLY LEAVES WITHOUT A WORD, BUT TAKES HER KNICKERS!”
The hall erupted in laughter.
Malfoy’s spoon clanged to his bowl. He appeared rigid with fright. The whites of his eyes grew larger with each word.
“I HAVEN'T HEARD FROM YOU IN TWO WEEKS DRACO, AND I NEED TO KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH THIS OOZING PURPLE RASH YOU GAVE ME!”
Pansy’s palm flew to her mouth, Neville went Pygmy Puff pink, and Seamus and Dean folded inward with their hysteria, pushing at each other for meagre support and nearly toppling backward off their seats.
A cackle tore from Hermione’s mouth. Of course she had expected this Howler (it was her doing after all), but she was entirely unprepared for the hilarity of hearing Harry and Ron don their most high-pitched voices and pretend to be Malfoy's jaded lover. The longer it went on, the greater the press of tears in her eyes.
“AND WHAT WAS THAT SPELL YOU USED, THE ONE THAT FIXED DOWNSTAIRS, INCREASED YOUR ITTY BITTY WI—
McGonagall, with a tidy flick of her wand, incinerated the Howler and silenced the hall of the utterly terrible female impressions. The rumble of laughter continued, pockmarked by the occasional squeal and booming guffaw.
“Very well, that's enough,” said McGonagall. “You best send an owl to your acquaintance, Mr Malfoy, and suggest that she consult a Healer about that rash.”
The laughter that had dipped away only erupted again. Fits of it at every table as McGonagall's very clear pronunciation of rash hung in the air.
Hermione’s cheeks ached from the wrench of her smile. She slid the back of a finger beneath each eye to brush away the escaped tears.
The bulge of Malfoy's eyes had settled, but he still gripped onto the table as though he might fall sideways. Face flushed pink, he twisted his head towards Hermione and narrowed his eyes.
“Students to class,” ordered McGonagall.
As most people filed out following the sharp crack of order, Malfoy’s expression shaped into an intimidating scowl. He was a menacing picture she hadn’t seen in some years.
In half a dozen steps he was standing before her, stooped a little so that Hermione could better see the fury in the greys of his eyes. One palm to the table, he filled Hermione’s entire view, his riled breath now brushing along her lips and creating a sensation that caused her to forget she had so recently been laughing.
“This is war, Granger,” he whispered, but his threat was heard loud and clear.