Hi y'all! Here's a quick one-shot, banged out in two days and inspired mostly by my job at a summer camp witnessing the older students' traditions (none as scandalous as I've imagined the seventh years' traditions in this fic!) and partially by an image I thought up at random and then needed to work into a story.
I've set this story in an AU in which Voldy was defeated when the Golden Trio were all infants—Harry's still an orphan but not a big hero, so that day and age is a distant past to all of them. I don't know if it's a very logical AU, though I've tried my hardest to make it fit with the scene I wanted to write. All in all, just a weird little experiment. Some adult themes. Hope you enjoy!
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. Nope. Sure don't.
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As far as Hermione Granger is concerned, Hogwarts would be all the better without seventh-year traditions. As far as literally every other student is concerned, it's the traditions that make the experience—or so Ginny Weasley says.
"Puh-lease," Ginny stretches the word out in an imitation of an American accent. She's recently returned from her summer job at a posh Quidditch training camp and keeps throwing around Americanisms, just for fun.
"Absolutely not," Hermione responds quickly, busying herself by rummaging around in her bag. She's not actually looking for anything—Hermione is more than prepared for seventh year, and the magical expanding bag is organized as ever—but she's already had this conversation with Ginny twice.
"It's your last chance," Ginny whines. "I won't even ask you to do the other stuff. But you know they won't let me in without a seventh-year, and from what I've been told I will be sorely missing out."
Hermione passes her hand over a stack of books, nudges against a bottle of Advil to make a rattling sound (it still works better on period cramps than the Wizarding cures), pulls out a tissue and pretends to blow her nose. She does not look up to meet Ginny's gaze. "You can't convince me now any better than you did the last two times." Hermione hears the door to their compartment open, imagines it's Harry or Ron here to save her from this madness. And it's about time—all this whining over the Slytherin Spectacle? Ugh. Stuffing the tissue down into her bag with much fanfare, Hermione punctuates the gesture by loudly announcing, "I'm simply not interested."
"I hope that's not directed at me," a smooth voice replies.
Hermione looks up, her frown instantly deepening as she identifies the visitor: Malfoy.
She hasn't seen him since Christmas, and honestly she's been all the better for it. From the very beginning of their time at Hogwarts Malfoy's been a bully, a snide little arsehole with a full range of blood-purity epithets up his sleeve. Hermione had chalked it up to jealousy, avoided him when at all possible; but his jibes still stung, stupid and old-fashioned as they were. She'd always remember how, before she actually met him, she'd first noticed him from afar and developed a crush—laughing with friends, he looked like he could've been anybody else. But as it was, Malfoy wasn't just anybody else; and Hermione had buried those feelings where no one would ever see them. Now and then, throughout the years, she'd taken them out whenever she was particularly down: when the exhilaration of her brief crush on Ron ended, when the male population of Hogwarts discovered Ginny Weasley, and just generally whenever everyone paired off for trips to Hogsmeade, making dates out of it. But Hermione knew those thoughts never led to a good place. She was the top of her class, for Merlin's sake; and the purpose of school was school, not dating.
"Why not?" Hermione snaps back defensively as she takes in Malfoy's frame. At the start of their sixth year, Malfoy had been more introverted. He'd several times lost his spot as second-from-top on exams; then he stopped attending class regularly; and finally, he'd completely disappeared for spring term. The Prophet had published his father's obituary in early January, and she'd felt for him then, attributing (without proof) his declining performance in school to his father's declining health. He'd been a shadow of his former self early sixth year; still, honestly, when he didn't return to campus in the spring, Hermione had been relieved, telling herself that things would be better if he didn't come back at all.
The angles of his face are even sharper now, his hair left to flop naturally instead of being slicked back. There's a trace of that familiar sneer on his face, but with less malice, to the point that it's almost a smile; and his eyes are somehow softer. It's not just that his features have sharpened but as if—as if he's become someone else entirely.
Malfoy holds her gaze a moment longer, and that unreadable look in his eyes makes Hermione's heart skip a beat. This isn't what I think it is, she admonishes herself reflexively. Momentarily his eyes slide away from hers and toward Ginny.
Normal Malfoy wouldn't have dignified the Weasleys with his attention other than to rub their faces in their poverty and their father's odd penchant for Muggle things. Clearly, this is not Normal Malfoy: he dips his head ever so slightly in a nod, his expression that same half-smile, and adds, "Ah, perfect. Morning, Red."
Ginny is too stunned to answer.
"If you'll excuse my interruption," Malfoy continues, sliding a piece of parchment out of his cloak, "I'm here to extend an olive branch. A truce, if you will."
Hermione is most definitely not thinking about his cheekbones, how nicely defined they are. She calls up the names he threw at her over the years, a quick catalog. Bad. "A truce?" she shoots back. "Wouldn't that imply more than one aggressor? I've heard enough, thank you." She raises her wand, and immediately Malfoy lifts both hands palm-up in surrender.
"No, Granger, you're right. An apology, for five-and-a-half years of living up to expectations."
Hermione's brow furrows as she tries to parse that, shocked to hear him admit she's right—but whatever it is, it sounds like an excuse. "Leave," she commands, her wand still on him.
"No tricks," Malfoy assures, indicating the parchment in his hand. He places it on the edge of the seat beside him and straightens up for one last look at Hermione as he exits the compartment. She remains rooted to the spot even after he has vanished from view, the unmistakable smolder in his eyes doing funny things to her stomach.
Ginny, for her part, has seized the parchment Malfoy left and opened it already."Ho-ly-Merlin," she exclaims, waving the parchment in front of Hermione's face too fast for Hermione to read. "Look at this!"
Hermione grabs Ginny's wrist, cocking her head sideways as she reads:
Slytherin House Seventh-Year Spectacle
This certifies Reserved Seating for
Miss Hermione Granger and Guest (1),
esteemed guest(s) of
Mister Draco Malfoy
There's more information on the parchment below that—the date (the first Friday evening of the school year, as if they didn't already know) and location of the show (complete with the one-night-only password to the dungeon for entrance), plus a small map of the performance space with Hermione's reserved seats enchanted to sparkle in green ink. Still, Hermione's brain has short-circuited on the first paragraph of the invitation, the part naming her an "esteemed guest."
"But…" Hermione drops Ginny's wrist, trying to call up a look of disgust on her face. She's not sure her facial muscles are obeying; as it is, she feels rather warm.
"Did you see the way he looked at you," Ginny is saying.
Hermione only hears her faintly, replaying the whole scene in her head. She's not entirely sure anyone has ever looked at her like that, least of all Draco Malfoy. It's plain stupid to consider it, to think about the line of his jaw or the muscled leanness of his neck or the way he's finally begun to wear his hair the way he should've been wearing it all along, loose and boyish. It's probably a trick. It must be.
"He said it wasn't," Ginny shoots back.
Oh. Hermione hadn't realized she was speaking aloud. She wonders faintly how long she's been speaking, what else she's said. "Still. It's—it's Malfoy. He's not to be trusted. This is some kind of… some new…" Hermione gestures uselessly as her blush burns brighter and the pounding of her heart echoes in her ears.
Ginny is full-on grinning. "All the more reason to bring me. For backup."
Hermione's glare shoots daggers at Ginny. "We're not going."
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"I don't know about you, mate, but I wouldn't be caught dead at the Slytherin Sexcapade," Ron says, through a mouthful of mashed potatoes.
Hermione has spent the better part of the first week of class training herself not to react to mentions of any of the seventh-year traditions, least of all the Slytherin Spectacle. She bites the inside of her cheek as she reaches for her pumpkin juice. Luckily, neither of her best friends notices.
Harry hoots with laughter. "Before Lavender I think you had a pretty different opinion—what was it you said again? 'I'd give my left arm to see those Slytherin—'"
"Ssshh!" Ron gestures wildly as Lavender approaches their seats at the Gryffindor table, and Hermione is relieved to see her two closest friends distracted once again. The Slytherin Spectacle, a burlesque show, is always the first of the seventh-year traditions, all of which are technically forbidden but traditionally ignored by the faculty who would police that kind of thing. Next, in early October when the weather is chill but still not dangerously cold, is the Ravenclaw Roundtable (a.k.a. the Ravenclaw Drunktable), a trivia game that requires all losers to skinny-dip in the lake; winners, though not required by game rules, often choose to join them. As soon as the castle is decorated for Christmas, seventh-years commence with the Hufflepuff Hide, a disorganized game of hide-and-seek better known as the Hufflepuff Hookup or Hufflepuff Hanky-Panky. Finally, Gryffindor hosts the Gryffindor Games, a series of stupid and increasingly difficult dares that students compete at until only one remains and is crowned King (or Queen) of Seventh Year. Hermione thinks the winner should be named King or Queen of Stupid, but maybe that's just her.
"I plan on playing a rollicking game of wizarding chess tonight," Ron is announcing loudly. Hermione rolls her eyes at Harry, who snickers behind his pumpkin juice.
"What'll you be up to this evening, Mione?" Harry asks.
Across the hall and over Harry's shoulder, Malfoy stands from his place at the Slytherin table. Hermione looks up at exactly the wrong time—or the right time, depending who you ask—and meets his gaze. Even from far away, Hermione can see the challenge in his expression as he lifts one eyebrow at her.
For her part, Hermione chokes on her own saliva and bursts into a coughing fit. So much for subtlety.
"You okay?" Harry prompts.
"Er, sorry," Hermione says once she has her windpipe under control. "Ah, I just suppose I'll spend the evening in the library."
"You're going, aren't you," Harry asks in a low voice, raising both eyebrows at her.
"No," Hermione says, a little too quickly.
"A certain Weasley might have told me a certain platinum blonde hand-delivered an invitation—"
"It's just so Ginny shuts up," Hermione hisses, cutting her eyes at Lavender and Ron before stabbing at a slice of mushroom on her plate with too much force.
"I mean, don't get me wrong, I don't trust him any farther than I can throw him," Harry frowns slightly, tearing a bite off a roll, chewing it mostly before he starts talking again. "Still. No shame in it." Harry shrugs, lowering his voice to match hers and looking up with a twinkle of mirth in his eyes, "I'm going, too."
Oh great, Hermione thinks. Now she'll have her best friend—practically her brother—there to… to… to what? Why is she embarrassed by Harry's presence at the event rather than relieved? There was a time when she would've thanked anyone for saving her from having to interact with Malfoy, and yet those old feelings she's spent six years trying to kill are bubbling up, doing ridiculous things to her composure.
Harry rejoins Ron and Lavender's conversation, not mentioning what he's just said to her, and Hermione's mind wanders. This has been an eventful week, to say the least—one thing after another. She somehow has at least half her classes with the Slytherins, who have spent all week whispering about the Spectacle and some kind of "contraband," but Malfoy has barely spoken to her other than to say "beg your pardon" when they tried to walk through a doorway at the same time. That doesn't mean she's been entirely without his attention—more than once she's met his gaze across a classroom or accidentally in a hallway; each time, the intensity of the way he looks at her has heated her cheeks and reignited a tiny spark of hope within her.
Just then, Ginny walks by, miming doing makeup at Hermione and pointing discreetly at the exit. Hermione stares down at her half-eaten dinner and steels herself. Whatever this is, at least it'll all be over soon.
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Hermione checks her hair in the mirror one more time: still unruly, in spite of all the potions and Muggle shampoo she's used to tame it. "You're certain—the 'reserved seating' doesn't automatically mean something like 'audience participation'?"
"It's never been that way before," Ginny says offhandedly as she brushes a splash of blush onto her face.
"But you've never been."
"Yes, but I've heard stories…" There's a tease in Ginny's voice that makes Hermione feel faintly ill.
"Oh, it'll be fun!" Ginny speaks again when Hermione stays silent.
"I'm doing this for you," Hermione reminds. And if her tone comes off as bossier than usual, all the better: it's the best armor she has.
"Thanks, Mione, truly," Ginny replies, leaning over into Hermione's mirror and winking. "Now let's go."
It's actually easy to pass through the common room unnoticed; there are others leaving in groups, and wizarding chess is, in fact, quite lively. But the walk to the dungeon takes far too long, in Hermione's opinion, especially in the numbers they have—she doesn't break rules without reason, and so far the only reason deemed good enough has been keeping her two best friends from being expelled for sheer stupidity. Still, as Ginny has assured her, they have nothing to worry about: their path is totally un-monitored. Not even Filch is slinking around.
"Why is this allowed if it's against the rules? Or, why do the rules prohibit it when—"
"Ssh," Ginny shushes Hermione as she gives the password, and then they're in.
The common room has been transformed into something that very much fits the diagram on the invitation, which Hermione carries clutched in one hand. One of the sixth-year Slytherins—she recognizes him vaguely—checks her parchment, nodding and indicating where she and Ginny should go. As it turns out, there isn't a hell of a lot of "seating" for the event at all—due to the size of the stage, many of the audience space is standing-room only. But with the map Hermione easily locates their empty seats, set apart ever-so-slightly from the standing-room area. They're close to the stage, up front.
The seats seem to be for special friends of the performers, most of them Slytherins themselves; but when Hermione scans the seated crowd, she's surprised to spot Harry among them. She makes a mental note to ask him exactly how he came to get a reserved seat, but then Ginny is elbowing her. "Oi, Mione!"
Hermione turns her head and is greeted by Draco Malfoy standing directly in front of her. It's all she can do to temper her surprise into a small squeak as she looks up to meet his gaze.
"I'm glad to see you decided you could make it," Malfoy says, his eyes burning into her like fire. He's not even pretending to include Ginny at this point; it's clear he's speaking only to her. "Hope you enjoy the show." With a quirk of his lips he turns and heads backstage, leaving a gaping Hermione in his wake.
.
Honestly, Hermione thinks the show is hilarious. A lot of the acts poke fun at Hogwarts rules or Houses, and not even Slytherin is safe from their own jokes. The comedy is clever and the risqué parts are a lot less scandalous than Hermione had anticipated. The point of burlesque is, of course, to tease; and save the somewhat unexpected sight of Daphne Greengrass stripping down to stick-on breast petals (they're green and glittery and resemble the Slytherin serpent), it's all in good fun.
Still, Malfoy has yet to make his appearance on the stage, and Hermione is getting antsy. She's been relieved to notice that none of the acts have asked for audience participation or sought to interact more than usual with anyone in the reserved seats; but who's to say that isn't part of the finale?
"Ooh, I think this is it," Ginny says to Hermione as the lights dim and the crowd's wolf-whistles intensify without obvious prompting. Ginny hoots along with them, clearly enjoying herself.
The lights go up, and the stage is full of seventh-year Slytherin boys in their robes. Malfoy stands at the center, the leader, and reaches slowly up to divest himself of his robes. Hermione makes a special effort not to focus on him as he others do the same, and when they dramatically rip their robes away, the crowd goes wild. The crowd goes abso-fucking-lutely bonkers. And Hermione doesn't get it: yes, they're shirtless, but they're wearing blue jeans.
Next to her, Ginny joins the rest of the crowd in heckling the boys onstage. "What's all the fuss about?" Hermione leans over and asks Ginny, tearing her gaze away from the stage. "Sure, they're acting like—entertainers, but they're still wearing pants."
"They're wearing Muggle blue jeans," Ginny corrects.
"So?"
"My family's weird, Hermione," Ginny explains quickly, her opening statement sounding unnecessary. "With dad's obsession with Muggles, we have all kinds of Muggle junk all over the house. But for most pureblood wizards—especially the lot who end up in Slytherin—Muggle things are strictly forbidden."
Suddenly the conversations Hermione's been hearing all week are beginning to make sense, all the whispered talk about "contraband." She can't help but laugh as the wizards onstage do nothing but prance about shirtless in blue jeans, having a grand time with the crowd's attention. Some of them flex, some of them heckle their friends right back, but nothing organized seems to be happening other than "here are some guys in blue jeans."
This is the big reveal? This is the "finale?"
Allowing herself to relax, Hermione finally peeks at Malfoy, whom she has been studiously looking around since he began to pull his robes off. Under the enchanted stage lights, his skin doesn't look washed-out like it would at a Muggle concert; and where some of the boys onstage are pudgy or even just a bit squishy, Malfoy's chest and waist are sharp and defined. Hermione knows he's been through something like five-and-a-half years of Quidditch workouts, but she's still surprised to actually see all that lean muscle. He flicks his hair out of his eyes with one hand—it's much better not gelled—and grins at someone's shout, lifting his eyebrows suggestively.
Hermione can't help but feel her stomach drop in disappointment.
And then Malfoy's pants vanish.
—It's not as if he's bared completely to the audience; while the jeans have disappeared, now the audience is treated to a view of the short, Slytherin-green silk boxers he's been wearing underneath. Shouts go up from the crowd. The rest of the boys onstage pretend to be shocked, some of them splaying their hands out over their crotches at the threat of their pants disappearing. Blaise Zabini, in deliberate contrast, cocks his hips forward and raises his arms in a gesture of display, just asking for it. The audience eats it up.
After an exaggerated moment of shock, Malfoy raises his wand and calls, "Accio—!" and the next thing Hermione knows, he's holding a guitar. As he places the strap over his head, the audience waits with baited breath.
Malfoy shrugs, strumming the guitar once, smirking; from this angle it looks like he's not wearing any pants at all, with just a guitar to cover the interesting bits. Then he strums a few more chords, a familiar rhythm, and the crowd goes wild again.
This time Hermione doesn't need an explanation. She knows this song, same as everyone else—though now she understands that many of them shouldn't. It's a Muggle pop song, one that's only a couple of years old at most, played to death in Muggle London by department stores and buskers alike. "Today is gonna be the day that they're gonna throw it back to you…"
The rest of the Slytherin boys onstage—all still wearing their jeans—start to hop down into the crowd, weaving through in search of friends and girlfriends, or else extend their hands to pull them onstage. All around her, Hermione watches as people get up to dance, to sing along, as nearly-nude Malfoy leads the song.
As to that—well, music isn't exactly his calling. His guitar skills are fine; his voice is maybe better drowned out by the crowd. But as Ginny leaves Hermione to dance with some sixth-year Slytherin and Hermione looks around to see most of the crowd occupied with each other, she looks back at the boy onstage with the guitar.
"I don't believe that anybody feels the way I do about you now…" Malfoy bobs his head slightly as he sings. As he moves into the bridge, he looks up through his fringe and directly at her. "There are many things that I would like to say to you but I don't know how…"
Hermione swears she sees a dusting of pink on his cheeks as he breaks the eye contact. This is a gutsy move for anyone, but especially for a Slytherin—playing guitar medium-well on a stage in front of his peers. Of course, nobody other than Hermione is really paying him attention—the dancing around her is slowing down into full-on snogging, making her wonder how much truth there is to the moniker "Slytherin Sexcapade." Honestly, probably lots.
"I said maybe… you're gonna be the one that saves me…" Malfoy looks directly at her again, and she glances over her shoulder just to be sure there isn't anyone else for him to be looking at. She watches his arm as he strums, the taut, lean muscle, the not-unexpected but still frankly arousing sight of his biceps. "You're gonna be the one that saves me…"
Okay, so. Hermione's heart is fluttering in her chest. Her skin feels electric, like if someone touched her she might leap straight out of it or else jolt away in shock. Malfoy keeps looking at her, directly at her, with the intensity of before, singing these lyrics that read like a message. As he strums at the final chords, a cheer goes up from the crowd and Wizarding music plays from somewhere on low. The show's over, but the evening isn't, and Hermione doesn't try to hide the way she stares after Malfoy as he pulls the guitar strap over his head, sending the guitar back to some safe place with his wand. Then his eyes are back on her and he's walking across the stage—
"Like what you see?"
It's not quiet in the room, and everyone seems occupied with snogging or finding someone to snog; nevertheless, Hermione looks away, her face suddenly scarlet. "If you're expecting to have a conversation with me, would you at least—put on—" she continues to avert her eyes, afraid she's already been caught checking out his—
Malfoy places a hand on her arm. "This way," he says, tugging gently, and she looks up, watching him move through the crowd towards the area behind the stage. Hermione doesn't think twice about following him, sparing one quick look backward. Ginny appears to be very much occupied with snogging and doesn't appear to intend to leave anytime soon, so Hermione won't be missed.
She follows Malfoy toward a small tent crammed behind the stage setup. When he holds the flap open for her she realizes it's of the type that the Weasleys had brought to the Quidditch World Cup a few years ago—enchanted to be much bigger on the inside, and converted for their purposes into a kind of dressing room. Random articles of clothing, props, and other items are strewn about; and a number of vanities are set up along one wall for the girls to do their makeup. Malfoy pulls aside a curtain off to the left and peers in briefly before heading inside.
Hermione follows. What else can she do? She enters a smaller private changing room; judging by the clothes on the floor, it seems Daphne has used it most recently.
"Accio Levi's," Malfoy says, raising his wand and pointing. The pants zoom through the curtain momentarily, and as Malfoy steps into them Hermione snickers.
"Levi's," she repeats, unable to help herself.
Malfoy looks up through his fringe again, glancing at her face before returning to the zipper and top button. "What? As a muggle-born, I'm sure you're familiar with them." He crosses his arms, when he's finished, raising a single eyebrow.
Muggle-born. Hermione crosses her arms to mirror him and turns the word over in her mind, chewing at her cheek before finally asking the question that's been gnawing at her since the moment in the train car. "You really meant it then, didn't you? Your apology?"
He stares her down a moment longer before uncrossing his arms and opening his hands in front of him. "You've heard the rumors—you know my father's passed." He looks at the floor as he talks, hanging his head. "It wasn't until the—the very end that I spoke my mind." Unexpectedly, he chuckles, shaking his head. "It was that easy. Somehow. Maybe it helped the man was dying…"
"I…" Hermione starts to speak, reaching a hand toward him and then pulling it back quickly before he notices. What is there to say? "I'm sorry"? Lucius Malfoy had remained a bigot, even after the end of Voldemort. She's not sorry the man is gone—only that his son has to wrestle with it.
Draco looks up with that wry half-smile of his. "I wish I'd figured it out sooner. But, you know. I take the coward's route. Slytherin." He shrugs.
Hermione's eyes slip from his, once again, to his defined chest. She quickly looks at the side wall so as not to be caught. "So you're sorry for being a bully for the literal entire time I've known you."
"Yes."
She waits, still searching the bare wall for something to look at, but he doesn't say anything more. "Is… is that all you brought me in here to tell me? Is that why the reserved seats, the…?" Hermione doesn't finish that thought, gesturing at his body once again.
"Silly witch, are you that dense?" His tone is almost angry.
Hermione blinks in surprise. "Now—"
"Of course that isn't all," Malfoy's suddenly speaking rapidly, taking several steps toward her until he's standing directly in front of her, his voice and eyes earnest. "Merlin, Granger, I—I don't have to pretend to hate you anymore."
"Pretend?" Hermione echoes faintly. He's standing so close she can feel his frustrated exhale on her face; his breath smells like peppermint. There's the spicy evergreen smell of his soap, a light floral note that's probably aftershave—all of it decidedly heavenly. Her voice is lower than she intends it to be when she finally speaks again. "Who are you and what have you done with Malfoy?"
"Nobody likes him," he responds. "Please," his eyes travel urgently up and down her face, searching for—she's not sure what. "Draco."
"Draco," she repeats softly, using his given name out loud for the first time. Their faces are so close now they're nearly nose-to-nose, taking shallow breaths. His gray eyes are boring into her, pleading, and she's certain her expression must tell a similar story. He's wanted this, too, she realizes as if in a dream. He's wanted this—for some time now.
"Look, Granger—"
"Hermione," she corrects, moving up to kiss him all at once.
Draco responds immediately to the contact, drawing her body into his. Draco's hands roam up and down her gentle curves as he kisses her hungrily, biting at her bottom lip, sucking and licking and then moving to her neck, moaning low in the back of his throat.
Hermione slips one hand in the back pocket of his Levi's, grabbing his ass through the fabric and raking her fingers the rest of the way up his back, leaving the other hand in his hair. She kisses whatever skin she can reach—his forehead, his ear—feeling for all the world as if she'll never have enough time to shower him in the affection she so wants to give. Her free hand traces around his body and across his chest, feeling the lines of his muscles as he returns his attention to her lips.
They don't break apart until they hear the sound of other voices from the large room of the tent. Draco pulls slightly back first, glancing quickly over Hermione's shoulder. "We should probably move this—"
"Somewhere else," Hermione nods in agreement, still not making a move to let go.
Malfoy ducks his head to look her in the eyes, his voice low: "As we're both Prefects…"
The remark only stokes the fire that's already been coursing through her veins, but the part of Hermione that seeks self-preservation makes her pause. "Draco?" Her voice comes out small, scared-sounding.
He dips his head down to kiss her lips again, a gentle tug. "Yes, love?"
The openness in his expression, the sincerity of his tone, should be enough to assuage her fears, but she has to say it out loud. "I… want to get to know you."
Draco scoffs. "I should certainly hope so."
"What I mean is…" Hermione drops her gaze, briefly, just to be reminded that he's shirtless. It doesn't help her concentration, that's for sure. "I don't…" She steels her courage, drawing on her bossy nature. Her voice is stronger when she declares, "This isn't just a one-time thing."
"Well thank Merlin we're on the same page," Draco quirks his mouth up in a half-smile. "If you like, we can put this off. I'll escort you into Hogsmeade tomorrow, buy you butterbeer and books of your choosing, call it a real date…"
"Yes. No. Yes, the second one; no the first."
"The first?"
"Putting it off," Hermione clarifies. "What was that about our bathroom?"
Draco's eyes burn with desire. "Ah," he practically grins down at her, "there's my girl."