#dhr;ff

Sometimes, Hermione wonders at her own will.  She is short arms and small fingers, and awkward legs, but her chest is iron and steam-power.  She has the strength of someone much older than her twelve years, the strength of someone who had and would fight many battles.

This is one she wins.

There is nothing worse than dropping a tower of books and parchment in the middle of the grand staircase.  

She spots through the flurry of hair a rather lengthy essay flutter away like nothing down at least two flights, a few curious eyes glancing up to see which unfortunate soul has lost their day’s work.  She also feels the stairs start to creak, ready to change and ruin her progress at collecting all her things- a particular pair of texts just on the ledge where the staircase is bound to snap apart.  She hurries to grab it all up, moving quicker than most thanks to her nimble size and determination, to make up for the lack of help around.

Some students pass, and fewer help.  Hermione has yet to make enough friends, and made a few too many enemies, to expect much compassion in the moment.

But that’s just fine.  She’s better on her own.  After all, in the end, she manages to pick up the mess all on her own.

But that staircase just has to move.

It shudders, and like that a piece of parchment goes fluttering off again- ready to join the others in their ground-floor coffin.  

Hermione twists herself, one mighty little hand reaching in vain-

The escapee is snatched, clasped and crinkled in a pale, equally little hand.  Not a hand she wants holding anything of hers, Hermione realizes with absolute dread.  She frowns at the smirking boy who stands before her, and his ever-present Slytherin pose; it’s strange how much this boy needs attention, validation from others.  It says much about him, almost as much as the amused expression on his face.

He looks far too pleased to have caught Hermione in such a position.

“You missed a spot, Granger,” he remarks, to which his shadows laugh- inflating an already gorged ego.  

It’s not a helpful comment, nor is it meant to be.  His hand dangles her work over the edge of the railing, and Hermione knows where his heart lies on the matter.  He’s a vengeful little twat, and she’s on his list of people to annoy into an early grave.

“Malfoy,” she speaks as though to a wild animal.  Anything too sharp and he’ll lash out.  Anything too soft, and he’ll step all over her.  “I need that for Transfiguration tomorrow.  Can I have it back now, please?”

Someone laughs amongst the horde, and she thinks it might be a boy named Crabbe; charming, suitable name.  “Can she have it back now, please?” He mocks, to which everyone cackles in perfect cacophony.  Except Malfoy.

He’s eyeing the paper intently and Hermione already knows she’s messed up somehow, and goes about kicking herself internally.

“Transfiguration, eh?”  He murmurs, and there’s an odd lick of a smile on his face, and she doesn’t like it one bit.  It promises nothing good for her or her essay.  “No, I don’t think she can, Goyle-” Well, she was close.  Malfoy lowers the paper for better scanning, and that smile of his is widening in all the wrong ways.  “I haven’t even started my assignment, so this one will do just fine.”

Hermione refuses to let her face crumple, but her chest is in fits- heaving in absolute rage and despair because she worked hard on that, and it’s hers and she really thought Professor McGonagall would like it- and she liked her so much.

No one notices her eyes start to gloss over as they walk away.  Except Malfoy.

Something irksome causes his legs to fall short of leaving, and he pauses just past her shoulder- the glimpse of her face stuck in his mind even though he’s presently staring at the back of Blaise’s head.  She’s desperate and sad- but not at all tragic; there’s a spark in her eyes, something lit and passionate and refusing to back down, refusing to break.

Draco Malfoy suddenly feels ill, and rotten to his core.  He hates it.  He hates her for inspiring such a feeling.

He waits until the others are a good distance away and backpedals, shoves the essay into her stunned, but willing hands.  He darts away from her eyes, hides his better nature behind his gel-smothered hair and posh clothing, and grumbles something stupid and childish like-

“Don’t tell anyone I told you this: it helps if you charm the books with a binding spell.”  He sneaks a glance at the young witch who obviously doesn’t know everything, despite claiming she does.  Realization is dawning on her face, but he wants to imagine he’s being helpful in clarifying further when he says: “You know, to keep them from falling over.”

“Right,” Hermione gasps, her face brightening, though her eyebrows are scrunched in scrutiny of her own thickness.  “How didn’t I think of that?”

Draco smirks but it doesn’t seem as spiteful as usual.  Hermione finds words at the tip of her tongue that she never thought she’d say to the likes of him:

“Thank you.”

That wipes the smirk right off his face.  Draco’s cheeks puff up, soft yet stubborn even as they turn a telling shade of pink.  “Don’t thank me.  I just don’t want to be on the receiving end of your blunders.  Honestly, it’s a wonder someone isn’t in a coma down there, somewhere,” Draco prattles on indignantly, and he’s already hurrying off that she doesn’t get to laugh at him quite properly.

When he’s gone, it dawns on her that maybe she isn’t quite alright on her own.  She needs help sometimes.  That night, she talks to Harry and Ron in the common room- and this time she tones down the ridicule.  A little bit.

More so than ever before, Hermione wonders at her own will.  She is of small build and torn, tired muscle, and her chest is cracked and leaking spirit onto the floor.  Yet, still she has the strength of someone determined to survive, the strength of someone who keeps fighting even when the battle is over.  

This is one that will never be over.

The skin on her cheeks and neck is raw from all the scrubbing.  She has a piece of ripped cloth in her hand, scrapes it against her chest and over her shoulders, under her shirt; peeling the war off her in sedimentary layers of dried blood, ash, grit, and sweat.  Her nails drag through the fabric, and leave her skin irritated and clawed red.  But this way she knows it’s off.  Or at least, she’s gotten what she can.

She knows she’s only scraped the surface, can feel the battles sinking one by one into her pores and deep within her.  It does this as the child she was pours out of her side.

The bandage at her waist is soaked through, and she knows she can use her wand- but there’s a terrible fear that locks up her fingers whenever she reaches for it.  So, Hermione sits there, crouched in a hidden corner of the Great Hall, and tries not to fall asleep.  Tries not to close her eyes.  Tries not to look around.  At the bodies.  Closed or opened, the bodies are there.  Her friends are there, and her enemies.  

Enemies she’d killed- some of the blood she’s scraped off isn’t hers- there’s blood on her wand-

There’s a soft caress at her cheek, silk and tender and completely contrast to the scratches she still feels digging deep into her bones.  So, Hermione’s immediate response is to run from it.  She jolts, and turns her head away from the touch, and only in that action sees the image of friendship she’s cast aside.

“You missed a spot,” Draco says quietly; he’s crouched beside her, hand still reaching out- limp, awkward, stubbornly remaining in place.  His thumb is freshly painted red, and Hermione stifles the urge to scrub her face raw again.  

Instead, she remains perfectly still as Draco attempts to do right by her again.  Breathes slowly and deeply as he wipes the blood from the height of her cheekbone, unknowingly relaxing as his thumb brushes over her screaming temple.  

That mind of hers has been screaming all day, and now that it’s quiet out - too quiet, she thinks - it’s all she hears, curses and green lights and the voices of loved ones echoing off the walls of her skull.  Bellatrix is alive and well in her head, the smell of corpses on her breath as she tears Hermione limb from limb- Hermione thought she was over it, but everything comes crashing down mercilessly.

Now, with the simplest of touches, the screams dial down to cries, and Hermione’s able to think about Draco, and how he’d surprised her - surprised them all -  with his staying.  Especially when she’d urged him to go, to listen to his mother- because she was tired of watching friends die and he was one that didn’t have to.  It had been selfish of her.  The memory of it stains her with shame.

“I’m-” She doesn’t even know where to start, and there are already tears drowning her throat.

All at once, the small, meager presence of Draco’s thumb on her cheek is replaced by the encompassing comfort of his hands.  He’s holding her together, but she feels like an egg cracking open- and nothing can hold or piece her back together.  Not the way she was.  She knows Draco feels the same, she knows he’s just as desperate to be a child again, yet he’s anchoring her with his eyes and touch, and he’s been such a shocking, kind friend in all this-

“It’s okay.  We’re okay,” he breathes, and for a split moment she believes the sweet sentiment but every breath pulls in the scent of stagnant flesh and drying blood.  For another split second, she wants to believe him- for his sake.  Because as much as he’s trying to comfort her, he’s trying to do the same for himself; Hermione spots the searing red deathmark scar he’s been branded with for life, scratched and red and raw- their skin agonized twins.

The truth is it’s not okay, they’re not okay, and they wouldn’t be for a long while.  How could they?  A lifetime of fear and grief has been forced into the souls of children, making soldiers and mourners of them all before they could ever be anything else.  And for that she claws at her own skin, feel herself chipping away, and knows something is coming from within.  Something new and inescapable: her future, full of holes and hauntings, and a person she isn’t sure she’ll recognize in the morning.

She doesn’t say any of this, doesn’t have to, because Draco’s thoughts call out in unison to hers.   

So, he pulls her into his arms, tries to make bone and muscle into iron to protect her.  And no one notices her caving in on herself.  Except Draco.

Something selfish and needy, and ill-timed, causes his arms to wrap tighter around her.  He’s falling apart, too, but can’t help the nasty bud of relief blooming in his chest.  Because while she’s afraid of the blood on her clothes, and its ability to stain her- reshape her, she’s still Hermione.  He knew it the moment he caught sight of her in the Grand Hall, leaning against a broken table, not lying on the floor; his lungs torn to shreds at the look of her painted in the greys and reds of war, breathing.  Still breathing.  Still the girl from the staircase.  She’s desperate and sad- but nowhere near tragic.  She still has that spark in her eyes, the spark of stars always bright and burning.  And maybe one or two are breaking apart, dying, but she’ll always be reborn something sublime.  Beautiful, terrible, alive, sublime.

And Draco Malfoy suddenly feels thankful, and happy to his core.  He hates it, hates feeling this way amongst the cries of grief, but he loves it too.  Because even though she’s breaking, and so is he, she inspires him to heal and change in ways that promise hope.  He wants to inspire her, too.  But, for now, he’ll just hold her.  Just for a little bit.

Hermione doesn’t wonder about her will anymore.  She is and always will be of small particles and scarred flesh, but her chest holds vast worlds inside it- the lives of those she’s loved and will always love stars lighting up the shadows of her heart.  She’ll always have the strength of someone who wants to survive, but more so the strength of someone who will live through the battles.

This is not one.

“You missed a spot,” she hums, her voice a happy, quiet song meant for just one someone.  He’s holding her, and they sway softly on pillowy grass.  There are others around, Ginny resting her head on Harry’s chest and Ron chases Teddy around the fine tables.  Others sit at those tables, eating cake Hermione imagine tastes heavenly - even though she’s only had it smudged on her cheeks, the barest of crumbs sneaking past her lips.  There are chairs that are vacant, guests preferring to dance, but Hermione can’t help but imagine those chairs filled with the ghosts of friends lost; Fred waves and laughs, surely because he and George would’ve pranked her severely on her wedding day.  Remus and Tonks watch with wistful smiles as Teddy’s blue hair bobs up and down and between table covers and shocked legs.  

Draco kisses the corner of her eye, and his lips catch Hermione’s heartache before it can turn to heartbreak.  He pulls her closer into his embrace, and she leans into his touch, momentary grief turned to bliss with just a breath from him.  Her husband.  Their matching gold bands make a soft ringing sound when she holds his hand tighter and closer to her cheek; Hermione smiles as she remembers Draco firmly arguing to have his wedding band be placed on his right ring finger- so everyone knew the moment they held hands, that they were this- together.  That neither of them would ever be on their own again.

“Did I get it, now?” He whispers, a loving smile in his voice and it wraps itself around her, and holds her.  And it’s never really quite enough, so she shakes her head, biting back an absolutely euphoric laugh.

“No,” she murmurs, and Draco laughs enough for the both of them- the sound of it vibrates and stirs the butterflies she’s had multiplying in her chest for years now.  He’s kissing her again, kissing her a little bit here, and a little bit there, and everyone notices how completely magnificent she is in all her proud, scarred, and healing, loving pieces.  

01:36 What book has you up so late?  Feels like something I should read.

Hermione is still grinning, ten hours after such a mundane message was received, and a little too promptly opened, on her AOL account.  Her cheeks are flourishing with all kinds of pinks and reds, and it’s absolutely embarrassing how she’s there, ten hours after the fact, after not replying - pretending to be asleep, what a ninny -, staring at this message.  In her office.  Her place of business.

“Oi, these documents aren’t going to sign themselves,” someone calls, and Hermione’s blush deepens the longer Harry stares.  How long had she zoned out?  Had she even seen him come into the room?  He looks like he’s been sitting there, collecting dust for eons.

“Sorry, I was thinking about how to reply to this…” She fumbles, and hastily closes out of the chat window.  “Very important email.”

“Oh, of course,” Harry says a little too certainly, with a little too much of a glint in his eyes.  The spark of mischief is intensified through his glasses.  He shuffles the files on his lap and places the cases of most importance on Hermione’s desk.  Pretends to not notice how Hermione’s noticed that he’s noticed something.  

It’s all very childish.

Her continuing blush, racing down the playground of her neck and chest is the most childish of all.

“Percy is really pushing to close the Stockton class action ASAP,” Harry continues a conversation Hermione had, in a way, been keeping up with despite her distractions.  She rolls her eyes and nearly stabs her pen through the stack of other, paying, clientele dear Percy wants them to focus on.

“My one pro bono,” she mutters, “I wonder why.”

Harry grimaces, eyes wide with sarcastic wonder as he leans back in the chair.  The leather complains enough for the both of them.

“It really is a wonder,” he replies, but his thoughts are already somewhere else, somewhere rather dangerous.  He adjusts his glasses, as though to get a better, clearer look at Hermione.  

“The real wonder, though, is what book kept you up so late?  Do you feel it’s something he should read?”

“Do those glasses give you x-ray vision?” Hermione snaps in return to the husky mockery of her private life.  Harry smirks.  This is, after all, his favorite part of the day: torment Hermione hour- the hour that never actually ends.  

As if it wasn’t his and his wife’s idea for Hermione to socialize more, to ‘put herself out there’.  Ginny was the one who’d made her AOL account while she’d been away in the bathroom.  She’s the only one who could think up the horrendous screenname: booksnob4life.

It’s a miracle anyone talked to her on that blasted thing.

“I wish,” Harry sighs.  “You just have a nasty habit of leaving your computer screen on when you go to the bathroom.”

Like wife, like husband.

“You rotten little-!”

“I was just doing my job,” Harry defends himself, arms raised and pleading innocent until proven guilty.  “Turning in the affidavit you needed, and there it all was.”

Hermione’s head is smack against the desk, affidavit stuck to her forehead, before he’s anywhere near done laughing.

“Who is this dashing i-object-to-idiots?”  Harry’s voice is too bubbly and sweet; this moment is obviously just too rich for him.  “He sounds devastatingly charming.”

She groans into the mountains of paperwork.  Suddenly, they look much less painful than before- when compared to this.

“He’s actually quite charming, intellectual and witty, and someone I’ll never meet - if Percy has his way.”

That grants her a snort.  She glares up from her slouched position; her back is already aching, and her hands itching to sort through the mess.  

“Please, this mound will be gone by three,” Harry completely disregards her moans.  Hones in on the nitty gritty detail: “So, you’re saying you’ve never met this guy?”

She frowns and sits up, corrects her posture and turns her attention to work, even if it’s the farthest thing from her partner’s mind.  “Exactly.”

His ridicule and peaked curiosity is reverberating off the walls.  “Have you made any plans to….?”

Hermione’s face is deadpanned, eyes dull with the blunt knowledge that: “We’re both lawyers.  You figure out that algebraic mess.”

She’s already turning to her computer, opening an endless stream of Word and Excel pages.  Anything to avoid that one beeping notification at the corner of her screen.  

“You haven’t even brought it up, have you?”

“No.”  Hermione doesn’t mean to sigh, but she does.

It’s rare: this feeling of disappointment and nervousness.  It only pays a visit when she thinks about this faceless, nameless person who’s she’s confided in for the last six weeks.  Who she wants to come face-to-face with, to see and hear in front of her, to not have to wait for her computer to connect to the internet before she can say hello to him.  

Who she equally is afraid of ever meeting, of having the ideal cruelly extinguished by reality.

She deals in laws of man and nature, and facts.  And that blinking little light on her computer screen is too artificial to trust.

“Well,” Harry replies, clucking his tongue as he stands up to leave; job done quite a while ago, and snark breaching his allowed, daily quotient.  “You should at least give him a book to read while he waits.”

He’s laughing again at the sour patch look on Hermione’s face, as if her love life - or complete lack thereof, is such a freaking riot.

That blinking notification is winking at her now, insistently begging her to “notice me, notice me!”  As if it isn’t constantly distracting her.

Hermione grimaces, thinking: maybe her love life is a freaking riot.  If she can’t even reply to a simple book recommendation out of fear of “the ideal”.

She opens up the AOL interface and stares at that message again, thanking any and all gods that i-object-to-idiots is not online to witness this ridiculously late, and pathetic response.

Pushing down the equally pathetic anxiety over literary scrutiny, Hermione takes a deep breath and types her reply.

22:15 You in court must be a sight.  Pitiful, really, the fool who goes up against you - this coming from personal experience.  In fact, I’m still licking my wounds from the last duel; is it really so wrong to love Jack Kerouac as I do?

22:15 I wish I could see you in action.

22:19 Actually, I wish I could just see you.

22:21 You know what- screw it.  Cup of coffee.  You and me.  Foreseeable objection completely overruled.  I want to see you.

“Objection!”

Hermione’s voice fills the courtroom twice-fold, but its inhabitants - especially Judge McGonagall - are quite accustomed to the volume.  The only one who seems bothered by it is the man standing opposite her; he is a smirk in a brown suede suit, reeking of wealth and privilege, defending the undefendable companies that seek to manipulate and exploit the disadvantaged populace.

In short: he is everything Hermione abhorrently opposes.  Abhorrently.  Did she mention: abhorrently?

“On what grounds, exactly?” Draco Malfoy drolls, his posture never once shifting away from the jury.  He just barely turns his head in her general direction, silver locks carefully smoothed into place so as not to stir when he does.  However, something about his demeanor has shifted.  There’s a tightness to the usually casual smile on his face - he always tries to work the jury with his disgustingly transparent charm - and something crackles to life in his eyes.  

He’s watching her intently, even if he doesn’t mean to.

She challenges his stare with one of her signature courtroom glares; quick, efficient, deadly as daggers.  It’s gone before a single eye in the jury can detect something amiss about the darling, if a bit passionate, lawyer.

Everyone in the room has lost track of how many times they’ve run this bit.

“Besides the fact that you have blatantly disregarded giving us any notice of this new witness?” Hermione shoots across the court, directly between Draco’s narrowed eyes. “You’re clearly now leading said witness.”

The only response this apparently warrants is the laziest of smiles.  Hermione catches a few jury members, men and women alike, melting at the sight.  She holds in her vomit.

“Your honor, forgive me if I was too much of a gentleman,” Draco responds gracefully, ducking his head down in an adamant, completely false, display of embarrassment.  “My witness is tired after a very long flight just to be here, and I’m simply trying to be helpful.”

Helpful.

Hermione’s nails dig into the case file in her hands.  She can feel Harry’s eyes drinking it all in, unsure whether to be amused or utterly frustrated; this kind of back-and-forth banter and jury-fondling has been going on the entire week at trial, and months before then too.  

Hermione’s feelings on the matter are quite settled: she hates this man with every fiber of her being; her very tolerant, open-minded, loving, I-see-through-your-bullshit-you-cunning-bastard being.  Hatred and these very qualities can co-exist.  Hermione’s determined for it to be so.

So yeah, she hates him.

Judge McGonagall doesn’t seem too easily persuaded either, and almost- almost rolls her eyes at him.  Hermione stills the unprofessional smile that this wrongfully encourages.

“Mr. Malfoy, being a gentleman entails knowing when and how to speak.  Talking a little less, and letting your witness speak more, would be much more helpful- don’t you think?” The judge responds calmly, if a bit exhausted by the ongoing banter.  She adjusts her glasses, but remains lax and leaning in her seat.  “Sustained.  Jury is to strike the last question from the record.”

Now that got the smile out of Hermione.  She’s grinning, a child winning the parent’s favor.  Her gloating becomes very visible when Draco’s carefully placed, fresh-pressed for company smile twitches, unnerved.  He seems to feel the happiness vibrating off Hermione in ridiculous waves because his steel eyes snap onto hers.  Positively glowering.  

She gets a sense that the hatred is mutual.

But either way, Hermione persuades her face to conduct itself professionally, and rolls her lips between her teeth to smooth them out.  To compose herself.  But she just hasn’t gotten this much joy from an opponent’s loss in ages.

Ridiculous as it is: she can’t wait to let her date know he has yet another fool to pity.

Perhaps it’s her giddiness to go, her impatience to meet a man she hardly knows, that makes today’s court appearance even snappier than usual.  She allows Draco no leeway with his roundabout questions, and shows no mercy to those on the stand.  She wants to close today’s testimonies as swiftly and efficiently as possible.

Harry has taken notice of the extra gasoline Hermione’s poured on her own fire.

“When was the last time you exhaled?” Harry mutters when she sits down.

“I told you, I don’t want the jury to siddle too long with his ‘experts’.”

Harry nods, his lips pursed in an odd twist of humor and affirmation.  “Right, the quickfire approach.  Has nothing to do with your rendezvous at 12 o'clock.”

Her eyes dart between the notes she’s scribbling down in a race against herself, and the opposing table.  Draco has yet to stand up and approach the prosecution’s first expert, is still calmly and lazily glancing through the file she’d been forced to give his legal team, his client absolutely at ease- slender form lounging as though he’s got nothing in the world to lose, and she nearly snaps her pen in two.

“Sure, fine, it has something to do with that.  But it also wouldn’t be so wild to want to keep today’s session back on track as much as possible.  So we can have recess at the usual time, but it would seem Draco,” the name comes out in a nasty little whisper fuming with frustration, “once again is playing games.”

She’s glaring daggers again, and he must’ve sensed at some point her increased urgency, because today he’s being exceedingly tedious; more so than per usual.

“To think, I once thought the law school rivalry would die a graceful death.”

That comment bestows upon him quite the incredulous look from Hermione.  She’s still got fireballs for eyes, and he nearly shrivels into dust.

“You know very well that’s not what this is, Harry,” she snaps, trying to keep the whisper low but Judge McGonagall is looking between both parties, and her watch.

“Mr. Malfoy, if you would so kindly hurry up,” the judge calls out, but Draco doesn’t even look up from the papers, and Hermione’s still stabbing into Harry’s psyche.

“We’ve been nurturing this case for years now, and then I find out he’s the one who takes up the defendant’s case?  His family name attached once again to Tom Riddle?  Don’t you dare belittle my issues down to a simple case of rivalry.”  

Her head is practically in flames at this point and it’s a blessing no one is seated in the first few rows behind her.  It’s a miracle Draco himself doesn’t hear.  How Harry hasn’t combusted is impossible to understand.

You’d think she’d be in a cheery mood, what with her date and all.  But it seems the first-time jitters are short-circuiting her patience and overall temperament.

“Your Honor, it would seem I need further time with these documents I’ve just been handed-”

That whips Hermione’s head nearly completely off her neck.

“Just handed?  I personally delivered that to your legal team a week ago.”

“Really?” Draco muses, a damn-near playful lightness to his eyes and voice.  “Strange, I only just got it now.”

It’s ten minutes to twelve, and Hermione is livid, and obviously that’s exactly Draco’s aim- he lives to see her explode in court.  He’s about to get a show.  “Your Honor, may I approach-”

“Your Honor,” he slides in, grinning at the judge.  “I feel now would be a good time for a recess.  If at all possible, could it be extended so I can get a proper look before my cross examination?  Clearly, the prosecution has been rushing to get their expert on the stand today, and now with this-”

“You know what,” Hermione takes a turn at being rude.  She mimics Draco’s smile and stands up.  “Your Honor, a recess would be lovely.”

Judge McGonagall looks like she was praying for the exact same thing.  She waves a hand at the both of them before they can say anymore.

“Alright.  Heaven knows I need one.  We will adjourn until two o’clock.  At that time, I expect both legal councils to conduct themselves with civility.  I don’t care for you two to be friends, but I care deeply about this migraine your squabbling has induced.”

With that, she drops the gavel and Hermione subsequently shoves all the paperwork at Harry.  Who grumbles something predictable and unintelligible.  Something Hermione doesn’t bother to snap back at.  It will take her at least six minutes to get to the coffee shop and fix her disastrous hair (it was fine now, but once it touched the outdoors…).  Not a second to waste.

And now she has two hours, instead of the measly one she’d expected.

Uncharacteristically bubbly and distracted, Hermione darts for the exit, only to slam right into the most dastardly obstacle.  Who smells like the men’s section of Macy’s perfume maze.

With a cosmetically injected smile, Hermione backs away from the tailor-made jerk in front of her, and unfortunately away from the small gate that separates her from freedom.  

“After you, Mr. Malfoy.”  She means to sound polite.  She sounds poisonous.

Draco is all thickly laid-on politeness, since the jury isn’t completely done filing out.  He’s a performer ‘til the end.  So, his smile only wavers just a tad, enough to let Hermione know, and only her, that he loathes her guts.

For everyone else, he takes a leisurely step back and waves a hand towards her one escape route.  

“No, I insist.  After you, Ms. Granger.”  He means to sound polite.  He sounds disgustingly sweet.

Not wanting to prolong the agony any longer, or chance an encounter with his chilling client, Hermione makes a break for it.

When she’s through the court doors, it’s like she’s opened a jar of butterflies in her stomach.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

“Ron,” Hermione flails, eyes glued in horror to her computer screen.  Ron doesn’t look up from the hellish paper sorting she’s chored him with.  “Ron, Ron, it’s blinking.  What does that mean?”

Finally, Ron decides this might just be a good enough distraction from his task and gets up from his place among the rubble.  He walks behind Hermione’s desk, where her hand is waving at him.  When he peers closer at the computer, thinking she’s having a virus attack - again -, Ron nods slowly.

“Right,” he murmurs,”that blinking little person means someone wants to talk to you.”

Hermione gapes.  “What? Who?”

Despite her outraged cry, Ron leans in and guides the mouse to that little person, and clicks.  “I-object-to-idiots, apparently.  Are you telling me you have an AOL account, but you’ve never used it before?”

He’s laughing at her, on the inside.  He knows better than to actually laugh out loud, this close in proximity to her talons.

Hermione scowls, and shoves his hand off the mouse.  “Your sister set it up as a joke.”

To that, Ron just shrugs.  He doesn’t make to return to his volunteer work.  “Doesn’t mean you can’t have fun with it.”

“I don’t want to have fun.  I have work to do.”

She hears Ron snoring at her mid-sentence, and glares at him.  To think, she’d invited him into her safe workplace, to obediently do her busywork for her.  And now he was revolting.  

“Do you really think I have time to bother with someone called ‘i-object-to-idiots’?”

“Hmm,” he mock-wonders and leans back in to get a better look at the horrible username.  She’s busy watching his thoughtful expression that she doesn’t notice when his fingers sneak around that hazardous mouse.  “I don’t know, do you, booksnob4life?”

There’s a click, and a ding! And Hermione’s stomach drops from beneath her.

Before she can raise her arms to swat Ron away, he’s backing out of her range, laughing hysterically while her computer makes some alien clucking sound.  She glances at the screen, petrified, as the notification comes: i-object-to-idiots is writing.

“Oh god, oh no.  He’s writing something.  What do I do?”

Her last encounter with a social life was… too long ago, she can’t accurately place a date on it, and God help her she’s barely ever interacted with the internet besides for research and school, and her ability to talk anything but law has shriveled dramatically these past few years-

“Respond, I’d hope,” Ron chuckles, and he’s not at all helpful-

There’s a gleeful swoosh!

“Oh, god.”

I-object-to-idiots wrote at 19:43 - A real book snob would never put the number ‘4’ in their username.  Actually, I think the ‘4life’ bit is a dead giveaway that you are not who you say you are.

Without any rational thought behind it, Hermione slaps Ron’s hand where it lies on her desk.  

“That’s exactly what I told Ginny!” She exclaims, oblivious to Ron’s painful yelp as he flinches away from her.  He curls his hand against his chest, regretting all of tonight’s decisions- starting with picking up the phone and not instantly hanging up at the sound of Hermione’s voice.

His mouth opens to encourage a reply from Hermione, but her fingers are already attacking the keyboard.  The grin on her face is the most earnest one he’s seen in weeks; her current caseload has kept her on a downward stress spiral.  

It was one of the reasons why Ginny had hatched this devious internet scheme.  Ron just hadn’t thought it would actually work.  

He scoots away and plops back down in the seventh circle of hell- determined to sort through the files while Hermione, finally, sorts through her personal life.  

Occasionally between rapid-fire typing, Hermione lets out a laugh or scoffs at something she’s read.  She remains this way most of the night, completely forgetting she needed to fax so-and-so this-and-that by ten, sharp.  She hasn’t had this much interest in the internet since she found out how to send mass emails.

She barely waves goodbye to Ron, and has to remind herself that she does have a hearing to attend bright and early the next morning- but before she can even type a goodbye-

i-object-to-idiots wrote at 23:01 - I’m extremely proud that I managed to distract you this badly, and for this long.  You have something to do in the morning, I’m guessing?  I should let you go?

you wrote at 23:02 - Am I to assume you didn’t have anything better to do?

I-object-to-idiots wrote at 23:02 - Better?  No.  But there is a closing statement I should be writing…

It’s a shame she can’t hear him, for she imagines he’s groaning.  And she wishes he could hear her laughing.  But it’s just a bunch of clicking.

you wrote at 23:04 - I should let you go, then.

He writes: Please don’t.  I’d rather save myself the finger cramps and just wing it.  I’m a pro at that.

Hermione’s hand hovers over the keyboard, biting down on a smile.  She mistakenly takes a peek at the time stamp next to his message, and sighs as she writes back:  I actually do have something to do in the morning…

He replies, “Oh,” and it’s like he’s sitting in her office, glump and unwilling to leave.  She has no idea what he looks like, but yet she tries to picture this stranger all the same.  There’s the outline of proud shoulders and he’s leaning back, leg hitched over the other.  Hermione’s sure he’d be wearing something impeccable but she can’t quite put her finger on the brand.  “Now why on earth did you have to go and plan that something?  Not knowing you’d encounter an intellectual on the internet tonight?”

“An intellectual?” Hermione barks, her swivel chair twists and drifts back in mock confusion.  “Where?”

Imagination is a dangerous business, especially hers, and it runs wild with assuming this stranger’s reaction.  He places a hand upon his chest, wounded severely.  “Ouch,” he sends across an immeasurable distance of intangible web.

It’s boggling to realize this conversation is being held both here, and somewhere completely unknown and unseen to her.  Moreso to feel like they were in their own space, unknown and unseen to anyone else.

The chair she imagines him to sit in creaks, his body shifting unwillingly, preparing to make his leave- even though he wasn’t ever really here.  “I should go, then.  You’ve abused my ego enough for one night.”

For one night.  Hermione’s pressed against her desk, probably too close to the glaring screen to be healthy at all, and it feels like one false scooch is all it’ll take to drop her off her chair.  In one night, a few hours really, she’s become invested in conversation with a complete and utter stranger.

Despite the little, insistent whisper in her head that this is a terrible idea, and she should really focus on work-

She types: Round two, tomorrow night?

And waits.

23:10 Of course.

The jar of butterflies has become a vortex- a portal, if you will, to a butterfly-infested dimension.

She’s sure there is one butterfly for every message she’s ever sent her mystery man, and at least double that for every message he’s ever sent her.  Weeks of confiding in anonymity to a stranger who couldn’t possible relate to her - yet did - swirl around in her chest.  Suddenly, every conversation is replayed in her head: every Sunday banter about each and every overhyped, politically distressing and underrated novel clashed with late night confessions.  The ones she’d never tell her friends: about how maybe her job has in fact consumed her, and how maybe she hadn’t realize how much of herself she’d have to give- how much she was willing to.  He assured her, continues to in her mind, that yeah, it’s selfish but it’s okay to want to take a break from ‘doing good’ and just ‘do you, relax, have a day to yourself, have a way to define yourself outside of your job.  Have a life.’

She wants to, she does, but the more she waits on life, the more she just wants to run back into her office.

Hermione clutches a searing cup of coffee in her hands, using the nagging nerves in her palm as a distraction from her ticking watch, from the crowded, humming room and the thump-thump-thumping of her heels against the stool she’s sitting on.  The barista keeps glancing at the furniture, certain this extremely caffeinated customer has stabbed two holes into the stool pegs.  Unfortunately, Hermione is not at all caffeinated.  She wishes that was her excuse.  It’d be more of the usual, and less of the absolutely absurd.

But no, the insanity continues.

There’s a quiet, almost indignant touch of expensive shoes to linoleum floor, and Hermione knows better than to look over her shoulder.  She knows who it is before he opens his mouth to say something witty-

“Could you please?” She mutters with a quick flutter of the hand, shooing the pest away.  Draco Malfoy is just getting comfortable, sliding into the one free stool the room has to offer.  It’s supposed to be for someone else, but he obviously doesn’t know this, or care, from his complete lack of mobility.

He’s staring down at the book on the counter with a great deal of shock and curiosity, and Hermione is quick to snatch it away and place it on the other side of her.  He still looks baffled, and is not in anyway moving.  So, she clarifies her reason for not wanting him around this time, and stares him down all the while.  Despite the redness nipping at her ears.

“I’m meeting someone.”

His stunned expression lingers, eyes observing her for a moment too long for her comfort, but she refuses to back down.  

Now Draco’s frowning; the kind of face he’d make if he heard one of his clients had passed away before paying his legal fees.  

He opens his mouth, but hesitates; lips twisting this way and that, as though struggling to form coherent words.  Her request is that stupefying.  “This is the one coffee shop with decent roasts, within walking distance,” he finally says, the words coming out slow and dubious, “and you want me to give it up because you are ‘meeting someone’?”

“Yes.”

“Well this is the only seat available, I’ve been standing all day, and I don’t care,” Draco briskly states, and it feels like he’s actually cemented his ass to the stool; posture perfected from years of practice (he used to slouch like a humpback whale in school), hands firmly planted to the counter, eyes determined to look out the window.  He didn’t even have a coffee in hand, and Hermione is pretty sure he’d make the barista deliver it to him herself.

“Figures,” she mutters bitterly, and takes a sip from her cup- just to keep from spouting years’ worth of bitterness.  

At least his arrival has extinguished all the pesky butterflies in her chest.  

“I never took you for someone who’d go on a blind date.”

Hermione nearly spits onto the counter.  Instead, she manages to somewhat gracefully swallow her coffee.  She keeps her eyes out the window, watching strangers brush shoulders and never speak.  Draco does the same.

“Who says I’m on a blind date?”

She hears him chuckle lightly, and she’s always hated the sound; it’s sincere, and reminds her of a time when- No, no.  It didn’t do to think about then.  It only served to disappoint her when she remembered now.

In the midst of her thoughts, Draco’s become animated and he’s pointing at the biography she snatched away from him.  “You always take your coffee to go, but here you are, sitting close to the door, meeting someone but not scouting for that someone’s arrival.  Interesting.  Except, of course you wouldn’t be, because you don’t know what he or she looks like.  To top it all off, you read that book a few weeks ago.  You can’t possibly be rereading it, so you’re using it as a token for the person to identify you by.  A blind date.”

Skin tingling with a good deal of embarrassment and annoyance, Hermione takes another sip of her coffee to soothe her nerves.  But she can feel Draco watching her expectantly, waiting for validation.  She glances over at him and raises an eyebrow in challenge.  “Are you expecting applause?”

His lips go topsy-turvy, and he’s smiling in a way that’s nowhere near the falsities she’s used to.  This isn’t a show Draco’s putting on for a crowd to appease or convince them.  It’s not the one he practices in the mirror before greeting another smoke-clogged, greed-driven client or entering another ghastly and cold meeting at his father’s firm.  It’s the lopsided smile of a young student she used to know, who was amused by her ability to amuse him.  When they weren’t at each other’s throats.

“A ‘bravo’ will suffice,” he replies, and the mood is uncomfortably different than what she’s used to.  The hostility of the courtroom had become second nature to her, almost a second home.  This camaraderie was completely foreign ground.  At least, now it was.  

Five years ago, it wouldn’t have been so strange to see Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger seated next to each other with a cup of joe.  Practicing a mock trial they’d play out later that evening in class, swapping notes on the case their professor had them studying together, or arguing about the ‘favored’ results on one of their exams.

In law school, they hadn’t hated each other as much as they did now.  It was, as Harry had put it, more of a rivalry than anything.  And sometimes, their combative natures were fun to play off of, to bond over when they were mentally and physically wiped.  But then-

“Why the nerves?”  He asks, and for once it isn’t to tease her before a session or in front of a client.  

Hermione sighs into her cup, watches the aromatic steam dance away from her and kiss the windowpane.  

“I’m afraid he might be too ideal,” she confesses, her brain foggy like the glass in front of her.  She shouldn’t be confiding in her opponent, but the coffee beans smell nostalgic of late night study runs and lazy libraries.

Draco’s whole face seems to be shocked by that, and the muscles pull back in confusion.  “And you’d rather he wasn’t?”  

Hermione groans and puts down the coffee, twists in the stool to turn away from, and then towards Draco.  She’s incapable of making up her mind on him, on this subject, and it’s terribly bothersome.

“Yes, and no,” she offers to Draco’s furthered confusion.  She rolls her eyes, mostly at her own incompetence, and runs a frustrated and firm hand through her curls.  Another horrible decision on her part; she can feel the curls multiply and frizz.  So much for fixing it up.

It says much about her worry over the ‘ideal’.

“I have an image in my head of who he is, and if he isn’t… It’s hard to get past what your mind builds up.  But… if he is, if he’s exactly who I pictured him to be, and he’s as close to perfect for me as they come,” Hermione’s blabbering, and she knows it, but she can’t stop it now.  She sighs.  “That just means I get to ruin it.  As I always, inevitably do.”

“You’re that bad at dating?” He’s scoffing, and it’s meant to be playful, but Hermione is quite serious when she eyes him.

“Yes, actually I am,” she replies, deadpanned, “because I’m dedicated to my job.  And not many relationships can withstand it.”

Draco’s teasing smile falters the longer her eyes remain steady and stoic.  She’s no fun like this.   And he knows she can be fun.

“But he’s-” Draco’s mouth lags behind his words and he shakes his head, frustrated.  “What’s his profession?  Do you know?”

“Of course, I know,” Hermione shoots back defensively, simultaneously begging he doesn’t ask for a name.  “He’s a lawyer.”

“Then he’ll understand.”  He says it like it’s case closed, settled business.  It says much about how little he knows of her personal file.  She’s actually laughing at him, stunning him again for the millionth time that day.

“And so what if he does?  I’ve dated within my profession before, and it doesn’t work out either.  Not the way I want it to.  My private and public life are built in two completely different fashions.  It’s impossible to maintain them both, and maybe I don’t want to…” Hermione trails off, something in Draco’s eyes catching her unhealthy interest; she realizes he’s really paying attention to her, not tuning her out as he’s prone to doing in court (though he swears he’d never).  He’s intent to discuss with her the intricacies of her private life, “and I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”

“Isn’t it nice to talk about something other than work, for once?”  There’s a sad hint in there of ‘like before?’ that Hermione isn’t lost on.  And that’s the dangerous bit, really, because it almost pulls her in again, almost makes her forget:

Draco Malfoy has done this before.

“No, it’s not nice, actually,” and Hermione’s words are bricks building a wall between them.  A wall she should’ve never brought down in the first place.  Not again.  The last time she’d done it, it had cost her dearly in court.  And as he full-well knew: “My work is my life.  Other people’s lives.  It’s the only thing worth talking about, especially around you.”

The look on his face tells Hermione he takes her comment as he should: personally.  Draco’s smile is scorched from his face, and he’s clearing his throat against ash, his gaze severe.  “I take the cases that are put on my desk, same as you.”

“No, you choose them,” Hermione rejects his excuses; this imagined scenario where he has no choice.  “You always have, Draco.  Your father may own the firm, but you own yourself.  At anytime, you could’ve walked away and done some good.  You know I gave you a chance to.  But instead, you’re defending a company- a sick, sick man who intentionally-” Draco opens his mouth, but Hermione’s hand shoots up to stop the nonsense- “intentionally poisons the water and pretends not to notice when it irreversibly damages, ends lives.  You and your father have been defending Tom Riddle for years now, by choice.  You chose this case, as did I.  And if I can’t see that man behind bars for what he did, I sure as hell am going to get him for all he’s worth.”

Hermione thinks she’s done ranting, turns back to the pedestrians beyond the glass, glaring at an innocent passerby, but she’s still got something angry and bubbling inside her where butterflies once were.  

“I once thought you wanted the same.”

Whatever that something is, it’s still bubbling.  But she decides she’s done and focuses on the now lukewarm coffee in her hands.

The coffee is cold when Draco finally speaks up, ten minutes to two o’clock.

“Seems your date stood you up,” he says blandly after clearing his throat of something that’s been lodged in there for two hours now.  She doesn’t even know why he’s bothered to stay in awkward, hostile silence next to her.  She doesn’t know why she’s disappointed to see him go.  

She does know, however, why her stomach has turned to concrete.

“I’m sure something came up,” she replies, and it’s pathetic because it’s mostly something she says to comfort herself and not him- because why would he care?  If anything, he should be gloating that her personal life has, yet again, been a no-show.

Strangely enough, Draco looks as distraught as she feels.

He takes his leave, but she lingers.  After all, it only takes six minutes to walk back to court.

She ends up two minutes late.  She’s never late.  At least, not before him.  Yet Draco is devoid of any snide remarks, and Harry’s more bothered by the look on Tom Riddle’s face, so Hermione doesn’t think too much of it until she’s home.  Until she’s home and seated at her computer, staring at the little blinking notification at the bottom of her screen.

Someone wants to talk to her.

For a moment, she thinks of ignoring him, of sitting on the couch and taking a moment for herself.  But then she realizes she’s only thinking of relaxing because of his short, fleeting influence on her life.

So.  Hermione gives into the blinking light and reads:

16:34 I’m so sorry.  Something came up at work, and I couldn’t make it in time.

16:40 No, that’s a lie.  I shouldn’t have said that.  I should be honest.  So, I’ll try, even if I’ve gotten very good at the lie.  I stood you up.  There are nicer ways to put it, that put me in a better light, but I want the light to be as plain and real as possible.  I stood you up.  I was the worst kind of coward because I’d made it to the door, I’d made it inside, but I couldn’t reveal myself to you.  

16:41 You see, I’m afraid I’ve painted myself in a very particular pallette of colors that creates an ideal image, rather than a real human. And you deserve something, someone real.  So, I still want to meet you, so badly, but not until I’ve proven myself to be flawed and ridiculous and real, and you’ve decided I still deserve your time.  

16:42 Of course, you might be ignoring these messages completely because I, again, stood you up.  I should probably stop typing that, but it’s the truth and you probably already knew that and are ignoring me.  But I’ll keep messaging you, because I’m stubborn and selfish, two traits you should definitely know about me.  So yeah, I’m really hoping you don’t think I’m completely spineless by the end of this, and will give me a chance to prove that I’m more than a waste of words on a screen.

16:42 I’ll stop typing now.

The glow from her screen is soft and warm, and the now cozy, familiar sound of talking keys fills her small apartment.  There’s a click, and a swoosh! and she’s written:

Twenty Pages

High and low, and in every possible cranny of the old Hogwarts Castle, Hermione had tried to find a suitable, tranquil place to read.  The Gryffindor common room was crowded to the point of bursting out the windows, and every hall was filled with more students than she thought even went to the school.  And everywhere she went, someone from her year was begging her to help them revise.  But she would refuse them, because for once, she wanted to relax.  She had prepared herself for all her classes this week, and would take that Sunday as a treat.  She wanted to read.  And she’d thought - thought being the operative word - that she’d finally settled on a place - a place she had hidden as a last resort, because of… well…

“How is that even after you’ve done all things considered studious and proper, you still find time to waste reading - when there are obviously better things to occupy your time,” Draco groaned from behind.  

They both sat on a sofa, surrounded by books and the warmth and light of a crackling fire.  But most importantly, she seemed to be surrounded by him.  Hermione had, at some point, become enveloped by long, finely dressed legs, and just as long arms.  At the time, her mind had been too occupied by allegories and imagery to find any danger in leaning against his chest.  Now, Hermione saw the trap he’d set for her.  Over the course of a few paragraphs, Draco had managed to coil his legs around hers, making it impossible to move without tripping and tumbling. 

“Truly, Draco,” she muttered dryly, not looking up from her book.

From the moment Hermione had opened the door and spotted Draco lounging in their secret library, a haven for two created by the Room of Requirement, she’d known very reading would be done.  If he had his way.  And he usually did, though today she was quite determined to focus.

His annoyance at this projected itself through his fingers, which toyed and tugged at her hair.  If his fingers weren’t deep in her hair, they were tickling the ivories on her shoulder and collarbone.  The tune was rather suggestive, and distracting.  And of course, all in a selfish attempt to make her pay more attention to him.

So, in retaliation, Hermione thoroughly ignored him.

And, in retaliation, Draco spoke.

“I’m bored,” Draco moaned, pained.  “Entertain me… or maybe I should entertain you,” he pondered slowly, dangerously.  His fingers took a bow after finishing out the song on a crescendo that left them heatedly pressed to either side of her throat.  He stroked the skin there, and the words on Hermione’s page went a tad blurry.

Hermione cleared her throat, as if that would push his hands away.  

It didn’t.

“You know, I actually think I read the book in your hands.  Don’t you just love the irony towards the end, when that bastard character- what’s his name, again?  Oh, you know the one.  He’s the wizard who traps-”

“Oh, would you please!”  Hermione shrieked, turning to glare at that cocky, sneaky face of his.  Sometimes, she was torn between flogging and snogging him.  

“I have twenty pages left in my book and- if you don’t shut up- I will do one of the following: scream, cry, or throw my book at you!  Maybe even all three!”

Draco was all smiles at the proposal.  

“Galvan!  That’s his name.  He’s the wizard who traps that girl’s family- uh, Edith?  Yes!  Traps them and her in the burning house.  You got to that part I’m su-”

Book shut, she bashed it into Draco’s chest.

“Shut up!”

He winced, but apparently was a masochist at heart because- “But surely you know that Edith d-”

“I said shut up!”  Hermione howled, beating him this way and that with the blunt front of the book.  His arms flinched away from her, tried to shield his body from further assault, but she was going for any part of him that she could- thighs, arms, and especially that daft head of his.

She hadn’t thought that this might’ve been a part of his trap.

As swift as Hermione’s attacks were, so was his retaliation.  In a moment, the book was snatched out of her hands.  Draco held it high in the air with the one arm Hermione wasn’t clawing at.

“You spoiled brat!  Give it back!”  She huffed as she reached for it, but more she tried, the further into the sofa he leaned, to put the book too far out of her modest reach.  So, she began her climb over him, and had nearly gotten her fingers around the corner of the book when she heard a rumble of laughter against her belly.

Suddenly, the arm she had ignorantly ignored because it was bookless, clamped down around her thighs.

It was then that Hermione realized what a trap it had all been.

“I won’t spoil the book anymore,” Draco promised, voice muffled and his grin damn near imprinted on her stomach.  She watched, not as forlornly as she should’ve been, as he eased the book away from the both of them, and onto the farther edge of the sofa.  Carelessly, Draco dropped it on the armrest, where it teetered towards oblivion.

“I won’t spoil it, just like I won’t spoil this golden opportunity quite literally in front of me,” he continued to mumble, and the acoustics of his breath and voice against her bellybutton nearly made her giggle.  But she bit it back.  Hermione had to remain put-off.

A difficult decision. 

Draco, enthused by his victory, became bold and the hand that so cruelly tore her book away from her began to peel the shirt away from her skin.

Her decision was becoming very, very difficult.

His lips touched the stubbornly still skin below Hermione’s stomach, just above her hips.  The pleasantly soft, wet and warm sensation drew a long sigh out of her, and a smile she’d meant to hold back.

He stroked his lips across the skin, and Hermione grabbed the back of the sofa, deliriously hard.

Her stomach must’ve tightened, because Draco was laughing again.

“Much more fun than any book,” he murmured before kissing the other side of her, as if he were connecting two dots.  She caught herself wondering if there were any other dots on her skin.

Before she could find out, Draco was on the move again.  He pulled at her thighs, and twisted at her waist until she was falling, back pressed against the cushions.  When she managed to peer above her, some hope at grabbing her book back, she found an empty armrest.

 He’d steered them in the opposite direction.  On purpose, no doubt.

While Hermione was busy trying to locate a novel, Draco was busy exploring her navel.  He’d kissed it, before shocking her eyes wide by tasting it with his tongue.

“Draco,” she stammered with a nervous laugh.  Her hands were at his shoulders, torso squirming in a feeble attempt to veer him away from uncharted territory.  But she could only do so much, seeing as Draco still had her thighs tied - this time by the firm press of his own thighs to either side of her.  In truth, Hermione knew of one way to get him rolling off her.  Just a knee-jerk upwards…  But that was too cruel, even for her.

But when he started to suckle the top edge of her navel between his lips, she thought maybe it would’ve been a just reaction.

“Draco, don’t you have something you should be studying?”  Hermione fussed, cheeks red and skin tingling in places he hadn’t yet touched.  The frightful bit was that she wanted him to touch every part of her.

But… 20 pages.

Mercifully, he released her flesh, but only to add variety to his teasing.  His tongue trailed up and away from her navel, leaving behind a fiery road.  He paused at the touch of her shirt, still on and successfully hiding the upper half of her chest.  It did not, however, successfully hide how her entire body seemed to rise and fall with each one of her fevered breaths.

“I am studying,” Draco replied lazily, and moved just as slowly until he was towering over her, eyes roaming over every minuscule feature of her face.  What he found pleased him greatly, because the left corner of his lip began to rise into something akin to a smile.  His lips were pulled upwards - on one side - and there was a display of teeth… But how could something so predatory be considered a smile?

“And I plan on studying this subject thoroughly.”

Even without fully functioning brain - as it was drowning in a bucket of hormones - Hermione knew that from time to time, when intrigued, Draco studied hard and with enthusiasm.

She had a feeling this was one of those times.

Without another word, Draco lowered himself onto her, and immediately into a kiss.  An arm slithered under and pulled her waist up into an angle so that every part of him was pressed against every part of her.  As he rested his other arm’s elbow against the sofa cushion for support, his hand gravitated towards her neck.  He cradled it, his thumb guiding the edge of her chin up, and thus coercing her lips deeper into his kiss.

Hermione should have protested a little more passionately, but her passion had directed itself wholly on Draco.  

For every stubborn pull he gave to her lips, she just as stubbornly pushed back.  Every time his fingers dug into her flesh, to feel her pulse and to drive it mad, her nails engraved themselves on his back.  And when his tongue, burning hot and impatient, tauntingly licked at her already moist lips, Hermione opened her mouth and challenged him to a duel. 

His tongue eagerly agreed to the terms and slid into her mouth, stroking her tongue so persuasively that she almost, almost, didn’t notice a hand sneaking up to the back of her bra.  She almost decided to willfully ignore it - though really how could she possibly ignore the friction, the spark he was setting against her spine?  

As mentioned, she almost ignored it, and began to focus more on the kiss.  But then she started to notice a sweet, sugary yet bitter taste to his tongue.  Hermione enjoyed it immensely, because it was like sneaking treats before dinner.  And it left her mouth abuzz with excitement and comfort.  

But there was a reason why it tasted so familiar.  Like home.

Hermione pulled away from him, which was not an easy thing to do with him nearly trying to devour her whole.

“Did you eat my sherbet lemons?”  She accused.  His fingers froze at her bra, having only undone one clip.  He really needed to work on that skill.

Draco glanced to the side, and the replying smirk on his face - lips rubbed raw and exposed - told her everything she needed to know.

“My parents sent me those!  Did you leave any for me?”  She gawked at him.

His smirk widened, and he shrugged.  “If you count the taste you got from my mouth.  You should probably come back here and take what you get before its all gone,” Draco suggested with a devilish wiggle of eyebrows.  He was already leaning back into her, pressing kisses into her cheeks and jawline when she refused to kiss him.

As he made his way down her neck, Hermione spotted her book on the opposite side of the couch.  Beaconing.

20 pages.

She did want to finish and, oh, was she feeling spiteful.

Hermione grinned to herself.  Two could play the devil.

Using her elbows as support, she pushed the two of them up into sitting positions.  Hermione grabbed at the hand still failing with her bra hooks, and pressed it to Draco’s side.  From there, her fingers tip-toed across his chest, and came to rest on his belt buckle.  That stopped Draco’s much more successful endeavor at her neck, where he was making quite a mark in terms of skin and pleasure.  

He lifted his head, and looked at Hermione with wide eyes and a quickened pulse.

“What’re you doing?”  Was he panicking?  How cute.

Hermione smiled.  “Shouldn’t I study, too?”

Draco let out a shaky breath, all previous confidence rattled.  Still, the spark of hunger and curiosity stayed in his eyes.  Watching and waiting for her.

Holding that direct gaze, Hermione unbuckled his belt and slipped it away from him and into her hands.  

“Put your hands at my breasts.”

“What?” Draco blurted wildly.  At the present moment, his hands were limp at his sides.  In shock.

Hermione bit her lips against laughing.  “Draco, put her hands at my breasts.  I know you want to.  Now- don’t touch them.  Not yet.”

He did as he was told, for once.

It thrilled Hermione greatly.  And the closeness of his palms to her rising and falling chest sent warmth and sparklers all up and down her body.  She wanted him to touch.  She wanted him.  But.

“Close your eyes,” she breathed.

Draco’s eyes flickered from hers down to where her hands still hovered, just above his hips.  Just above the part of him Hermione had felt earlier, bold and hard against her.

He closed his eyes.

And there was a snap of a belt, wrapped around his wrists and pulled tight. 

“What-”

Before he could do anything about the sudden change in action, Hermione was shoving him down against the sofa, under her this time.   And within moments the book was back in her free hand, while the other pinned Draco’s squirming, cursing body down.  His eyes were open, and aware to the trickery he’d fallen fool to.

“You!  You nasty witch!  You horrid, nasty witch!”  Draco howled over and over, until it broke down in pain when Hermione sat squarely down on him.  Legs folded proper and neat over his chest and trapped arms.

“Now, now.  You can continue, after I’ve finished.”  It was finally Hermione’s turn to tease.  How she relished it and beamed at Draco’s defeated, somewhat amazed expression.  She almost felt bad at denying him.

But Hermione would eventually let him touch her again.

Just, not until she’d finished those 20 pages.

Red Alarm

“Draco, please!  Listen to me!”

Everywhere he looked, Draco saw red.  It was why he started pacing around the room, back and forth, back and forth, looking for something - anything - that would change the scenery from panic into calm.  But everything was red, even Hermione Granger.  

On most days, she was gold.

But today, she was red.

Hermione’s face burned with passion and frustration.  Yet she stood still at the center of the room, of the storm even, as she tried to call Draco to her.

“Draco, it doesn’t have to be so black and white-”  He already knew it wasn’t.  He saw the world in bright colors.  Just today, it was all, very, very red.  “You don’t have to go back to the Manor!  Not because of this!  We can figure something out, send a rescue party for your mother and father.  I’m sure the Order would leap at the chance to help you, after you’ve sacrificed so much for the cause.  I know it wasn’t easy, and it won’t be easy anymore.  The second you dropped your wand from Dumbledore’s throat that night, you must’ve known it would become difficult- But that shouldn’t-”

“Shut up,” Draco muttered.  In some respect, he must’ve known he’d been muttering that under his breath this entire time. 

“-change your decision to fight on the right side.  You can’t imagine how proud I am to call you my friend, after everything that’s happened.  And as a friend, I’m begging you not to let this sway you.  No matter what he says, or tries to do to hurt and bend you, you can’t-”

“SHUT UP!” Draco screamed this time.  He rushed at her from across the room, would’ve slammed his hand against the wall behind her if not for the glass of the window.  Of course she would stand there.  The image of her and the expanse of free land behind that wild, moon-lit mane of hers, was enough to set him off again, pacing and screaming like a lunatic.  

As if he weren’t already turning into a madman.  “If you don’t stop talking,” he seethed, “I’m going to-”

“What?” Hermione shot in challenge.  She never could keep her calm like she intended, at least not when it came to him.  Draco took a sick pride in being one of few to make her act irrationally.

“What will you do, Draco?”  She fumed, her eyes lit with a fire that suddenly changed his spectrum of color.  The fire burned blue.  the most volatile, dangerous kind.  

“Are you going to scream?  Break something?  Hurt me with your words?  Because we’re beyond that and-”

She muted when he took a step closer to her.  Fear flickered in her eyes.

What a contradiction it was that her fear excited him, but also grieved him.  

He didn’t want to look into her eyes anymore.

“I’m going to kiss you.”

That fear rose, bright and blue.  “Draco, that’s not a solu-”

Instantly, his hands grabbed hold of her cheeks and his mouth slammed into hers.  

He’d warned her to shut up, and she’d disregarded it.  As she usually disregarded him.  No matter what Hermione said about them being friends, the intimacy she had with Potter and Weasley was something he’d never come close to before this week.  Months had gone with those three off, hiking in god knows what forests, with Hermione barely reaching out to him, while he stewed in his own filth with Order members who couldn’t really give a rat’s ass for a Malfoy.  Every last one of them saw him as a coward who just couldn’t get it up.  Except for Hermione.  She believed he was good, and strong-willed.  It was a farce, but a kind one.

He’d wanted to kiss her from the moment she’d returned to base.  She’d just been too busy to notice his gazes.  As always.  Until now.

Knowing it would probably be the one and only time he could kiss her, Draco made the most of it.  

He held her so firmly that the flesh of her cheeks became cradled between his fingers, and he could intimately feel and memorize the shape and strength of her bones.  

Hermione’s lips, at first, were still in shock and hesitance.  Selfishly, that didn’t stop Draco from pushing himself onto her, from massaging his lips against that soft landing he’d dreamt of falling on.  

Then something changed in her, sparked even, and her lips weren’t just receiving, but demanding.  Hermione’s hands were at his hair, fingers weaving in and pushing him to go even deeper.  

Inside him, hunger roared to be sated.

Draco’s tongue licked and indulged in the sweetness of Hermione’s lips, noting the taste of recently sipped tea.  Along with his hunger, came thirst.

Starving, and groaning, he bit at her lips, dragging them into his mouth for a better taste, until finally she opened her lips and his tongue entered a world of warm delicacies.  Roughly, Draco brushed his tongue across the length of hers.  He hummed at the tickle of soft flesh and the faintest helping of sugar and milk. 

Yet, none of this sated his hunger or quenched his thirst.  If anything, it made it all worse.  Behind his closed eyes, he still saw red- feverish, fiery red, with bright spots of gold and blue.  His chest felt like it was being pressed through a tube, and deep in his belly, and below, was a tight, tight, severely mounting, pulsing pressure.

Light-headed, Draco pried himself away from Hermione’s lips.  He did not at all enjoy the separation’s effect: a sudden clench at his ribs, as if they were about to break.  Kissing her was painful, but so was not kissing her apparently.

There was a long pause as the two of them tried to catch their breath.  He decided he very much enjoyed the feel of Hermione’s chest brush against his every time she gasped an inhale.

He also didn’t mind the color red too much if it was on Hermione’s cheeks and lips, as it was now.  The blood rushing to her cheeks highlighted her freckles beautifully, and the blood beating at her lips showed how raw and loving they were.  

Those lips were trying to move.

“Is it,” Hermione breathed and then swallowed, her eyes flickering back and forth between his eyes and his lips.  Her hands were still very much deep in his hair, fingers mindlessly stroking now messy and tangled strands.  For once, Draco didn’t give a damn what he looked like.  Because whatever he looked like, it apparently did wonders for Hermione.  She had the faintest smile on her face, and he figured her lips were too sore to form a complete smile just yet. 

“Is it okay for me to talk now?”  She asked, and whether or not she was being serious played no role in what Draco did next.