Five Times Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy Never Kissed

Year Four

Hermione sidles around a rosebush and sits down on the far side, hoping she is far enough away from the entrance hall that no one will find her. She knows Viktor is waiting for her, back at the ball, but she doesn't want to face anyone.

The evening had started so wonderfully. It had taken ages to put up her hair, but the surprise on people's faces, on Harry's face even, when they had recognized her, had made it well worth it. There were more important things than looks, certainly, but a small, well, perhaps not-so-small part of her, had been delighted at the admiring looks she'd received.

Then Ron, who she'd hoped might have asked her to the ball, had to go and spoil everything with his insinuations about Viktor, who had been nothing but gentlemanly, even in spite of his rather unfortunate tendency to go on about Quidditch.

Voices and music float back to her from the castle, and the fairy lights in the garden twinkle cheerfully. Her tears catch and reflect the glimmer, and she wipes her eyes with the edge of her robe. If someone does stumble upon her back here, she doesn't want them to know she's been crying. She tugs at her necklace, dragging the sapphire sunburst back and forth across its chain.

A tear has fallen on her lip and she brushes it away, her hand going to her teeth again. She's still hardly able to believe that they are straight, so perfectly even. Imagining her parents' likely reaction, and how she could explain what had happened to shrink her teeth, she doesn't hear the approaching footsteps until someone sits down beside her. In fact, they nearly sit on top of her.

"Excuse me," Hermione begins hotly, "this spot is taken."

"It's big enough for both of us, isn't it? You're crying, I'm hiding, let's just carry on and ignore each other." Pale hair gleams in the dark, and the boy's voice is familiar, but she can't quite place it.

"I'm not crying," Hermione snaps. "I'm thinking." It's true. She hasn't been crying for at least four minutes.

"Well, keep thinking, then." He snorts. "What a wretched crush. I hate parties. Still, my father wanted me to show my face. Say, what house are you in? I wouldn't want to be sitting here with a Gryffindor." He nearly spits the last word, and Hermione knows instantly who she's sitting with.

She doesn't know what possesses her to lie, but she says, without stopping to think, "Ravenclaw." Well, it could have been true. She fishes for a name in case he asks, but he accepts the answer and seems content with anonymity.

Is this what Malfoy is like, when he's not perpetuating decades of hatred, of prejudice? He's smart, she knows that much. In a different world they could have been friendly rivals. Maybe something more. But this is not that world. She knows she should get up and leave, but something keeps her on the ground, next to him, so close that the fabric of her blue robe brushes against his leg. Perhaps it's the fact that when he's not sneering in her direction, taunting Ron, or casting black looks at Harry, he's quite handsome. He didn't recognize her when she entered the ball with Viktor, and he doesn't seem to know who she is now, either. The part of her that ever hungers for knowledge is curious to see how this plays out.

"Who are you hiding from?" She asks, trying to pitch her voice a little lower. Malfoy's really only heard her speak in class, although she doubts he often listens to her occasionally breathless answers.

"My date." He sighs gustily. "All she wants to do is dance, or pull me into dark corners and snog. I just wanted to sit and think." He falls silent again. Nearly a minute passes before he seems to remember he isn't alone. "How about you?"

"Oh," Hermione begins, unsure of what she can say without giving herself away. She finally decides on "My friend and my date got into an argument."

"Didn't you come in with Krum? He looks too thick to string three words together, let alone get into an argument."

Hermione is astounded at his perception. In the dark he has recognized her, albeit not as herself. She is pleased that her transformation was so complete, but also angry, angry that Hermione Granger means so little to Draco Malfoy that without the context of the classroom, she is just another student.

She gathers the skirt of her robe to stand, to storm away, then she hears something fall to the ground. Her hand flies to her throat, but her necklace is gone.

"Oh, no," she says, crouching back down, her hands patting the grass.

"Have you lost something?"

"My necklace, it fell to the ground just now. My mother gave it to me, I've got to find it."

He watches her, and eventually pulls out his wand, muttering "Lumos."

"Thank you. I didn't bring mine."

"What kind of witch are you?"

"It didn't fit in the dress," she retorts, but she knows he's right. She should have brought it. Hogwarts is safe enough from Death Eaters, but there are other dangers. What if Malfoy had recognized her, and tried to curse her? Realizing her foolishness, she wonders if she's given herself away as a Muggle-born. But she doesn't have time to consider, because Malfoy suddenly ducks his head and snatches something off the ground.

"Is this it?" He holds out his hand and Hermione takes her necklace, noting that his palm is cool and very dry. She sees that his fingers are very long and wonders why she finds that interesting. Then his wand light goes out and his face is suddenly right in front of hers and those same fingers she was just admiring are curving around her neck and lips, Malfoy's lips, are against hers and he is kissing her. She can't explain why but she opens her mouth and his tongue touches hers and she is hot and cold at once, shivering at the heat that rushes through her limbs. Hermione is being kissed for the first time and it is Draco Malfoy, who is a Slytherin, unkind, outright cruel, the child of known supporters of You-Know-Who, who hates everything she is, and he is kissing her and she is kissing him back.

His hands curl around her neck and lightly he trails a finger down to her shoulder and then suddenly he wrenches his mouth away and his wand is at her throat. Her heart is racing and she can do nothing but blink helplessly, hand at her lips. She thinks she might cry again.

"I expected better of you, Granger. If I wanted to curse you, you'd be helpless, with no one to hear you scream." His voice is cold and she can't believe that her lips are still warm from his.

Then he pulls his wand back and stands. Hermione stays on the ground, on her knees, dusty robes pooling around her feet, which prick with pins-and-needles. Her eyes burn and she can't tell whether she's crying with fear, anger, disappointment, or relief. She supposes she isn't out of danger yet; he could always turn around and hex her.

When he does lean back down, her heart nearly stops. She can't remember when she's last been this afraid. He had to have known it was her when he kissed her, and his complete about-face of emotions is terrifying.

"Your teeth are much improved, Granger. One could almost say you were pretty."

Then Draco Malfoy strides away into the evening, leaving her frozen behind the rosebush. The fairy lights sparkle on behind her, dancing to the tune of the merriment from the ball.