Dramione, oneshot.
Draco's fingers bite into his palm as he watches Granger bask in the glory of having successfully turned her goblet into a rat. McGonagall is beaming down at her favourite student with the delight of someone staring rapturously at one's long lost daughter. Hell, he wouldn't really be surprised if she did, in fact, turn out to be her offspring, given how similar their matronly mannerisms went, but there was the tiny detail of some poor sod having actually been desperate enough to have nailed the bony, old hag to have created the long molared mudblood.
Also, she was a mudblood. Muggle, really.
He turned his attention back to his own unchanged goblet.
Merlin, how he wished to hurl the damn thing into the wall. But the news would reach his father who would undoubtedly launch into another one of his disappointed and severely boring history lessons about their very well-mannered and self-contained ancestors who'd never go about throwing things like some muggle brute. They would, however, appoint several house-elves to the job of breaking down said things, being too noble to actually lift a finger for the task.
He realizes that staring daggers at Granger's head is going to accomplish naught, so he finally decides to empty his mind of distractions and concentrate.
A few tries later, he's looking at a very smug rat on his desk. He smirks at the creature, and changes the colour of its scraggly fur into a very becoming shade of green. The bell goes off at this instant, and he gestures at Crabbe and Goyle to go on without him.
Somehow he ends up walking just behind the bulky mass that is Granger's hair. Involuntarily, his gaze slides down lower and he's fleetingly disappointed to note that her behind is not of the same bulky variety.
As if sensing his attention, Granger comes to an abrupt halt and whips around to face him. He belatedly realizes that he's been walking behind her for quite some time and that they're currently standing in a deserted corridor which looks like it's the shortcut to the library.
Granger's tapping her foot as she stands and stares at him, looking mightily pissed off.
He does not deem this questioning stance of hers as something deserving of a reply so he glares right back, willing her to accuse him of something.
"What are you doing here, ferret?," she seethes.
"None of your damn business, Granger." He says flatly.
"You've been following me for the past ten minutes and I want to know why."
"Like you'd be so lucky." He scoffs.
Her upper lip curls in what he recognises as supreme irritation, and his mouth twitches reflexively into a smile.
"Don't grin at me like that," she hisses, "Merlin, it's beginning to freak me out."
And just like that, the smile's gone.
"Keep walking, mudblood." He snarls, "I don't want to be caught talking with the likes of you."
"Funny you should say that. And yet you're still here."
"Fuck off." is his very eloquent reply.
Her lips tighten, and she turns to walk away from him, before she realizes that they're still stuck in the same position as before. He can almost her see her hair crackle with animosity as she takes small, mechanical steps forward. He simply follows.
She rushes forward, almost skips at the sight of the next corner, as if trying to escape him. He lengthens his stride to match hers. She's running now, and he's darting after her and he doesn't know when it turns into a game of cat and mouse, or when his objective shifts from simply causing her vexation to just somehow getting a hold of her, but he's racing after her and they've now reached a corridor which he's almost positive doesn't lead to the library.
He catches up to her of course, and whips out an arm to grab her. He pauses for a millisecond, finally at a loss for what to do now that he's caught up, but it doesn't take long for him to decide.
He covers her lips with his, simply for something to do before she can spew anything out of that firecracker mouth and spoil the whole thing. In a twisted sense it makes him feel like he's still winning but he knows this deep in his gut that he's really, really not.
As if to further prove that, Granger shudders into a stop before miraculously responding and as her fingers clutch at his hair and her mouth begins the battle with his own, he fully knows that he's completely lost it. So he tries to cover it by pushing her into the wall behind her, and thrusts his tongue into her mouth, but she retaliates by pushing her own into his and thus they're now full on snogging. His hands are everywhere, and he swears he can't feel anything besides the warm press of her body against his and hot damn, it's driving him mad.
Just when things are beginning to get interesting, she starts to push him away and he reluctantly withdraws to figure out what's wrong. Her chest is heaving with perceptible effort and her face is flushed. His gaze locks on to her swollen lips, and he forgets for a second what this whole damn thing is about.
"This is most definitely not a kiss." She utters.
"Most definitely not." He echoes.
Their eyes meet in mutual agreement, and they nod once, before their lips latch on to each other once again. They continue their non-kiss and when they finally separate, their voices are hoarse with desire, mouths sore with overuse and the promise of several more stolen non-kisses to come embedded deep inside their hearts.
A/N: Just something random I've had in my mind. Sorry for the bad editing, this is not really double-checked.
Hope you liked it!