So... Yes, I realise that A Certain Kind of Magic in the Air is not updated, and hasn't been updated for a long time *cringes*. It's okay, I haven't abandoned it, but... I had a USB that I kept all of my stories on, and I have about- oh, I don't know, fifty or sixty of them, of various lengths, in various fandoms and even some original ones- except I lost it. All of it. It was a bit of a shock. It was stupid of my not to have it backed up, but there it was. I had another USB on which I had OLDER versions of the stories, so they're not completely lost, but anything I wrote in the past year and a half... gone. Lost. Zilch. Which is why I'd been wallowing a little in my misery. I didn't have the heart to keep writing ACKMA till very very recently. So hopefully that's updated soon... but in the meantime, to distract myself from the abject despair of losing so many of my projects, I wrote this fluffly little Dramione oneshot. I hope you enjoy.

Peppermint

Hermione Granger does not like Draco Malfoy.

Hermione Granger is not in love with Draco Malfoy.

Hermione Granger is most definitely not in lust with Draco Malfoy.

Unfortunately, Hermione Granger was having to repeat the above mantra in her head like a prayer as Draco… no, Malfoy!... cornered her near the Astronomy Tower on a Wednesday night, leaning in close enough for her to smell the slight scent of his peppermint shampoo.

Peppermint was her favourite scent.

She was trying very hard not to think about that.

"Give it up, Granger," he breathed right into her ear, and Hermione held back a shiver. No! Bad body! Bad brain! I do not like Malfoy. I do not like Malfoy. IdonotlikeMalfoyIdonotlikeMalfoy…. "We both know you're dying to kiss me again, so what's the point in pretending?"

Hermione managed a shaky snort. "Ha! I see someone forgot to teach little you that the earth revolves around the sun and not you. Still, you'd think with seven years of Astronomy under your belt you'd have grasped that concept by now..."

Draco smirked. "Amusing, little girl. But you're avoiding the question. Why not? What's the point of denying us what we both want?"

Hermione tried to wriggle out from between the wall and the iron cage of his arms, to no avail. "Because—what does it matter now?! Let me go, Malfoy. I need to finish my rounds."

"Sod the rounds," he said, and Hermione felt it again—that little stirring of adrenaline whenever Draco said something outrageous that went against her carefully established rules. He was so—so wild, a veritable rainstorm that unbalanced and upset her neat little ordered world with a healthy dash of chaos. Or perhaps it was just his offensively unshakeable confidence; whatever he said, he expected it done. And by all the gods, was that ever sexy… wait, what? NO! Backtrack!

"Sod the rounds," Draco repeated, quieter, and Hermione tensed up against the wall. His eyes looked silver in the gloomy darkness. "What are you scared of, Hermione? What more should I do? What are you afraid of?"

Steeling herself, Hermione looked straight up into his soft grey eyes and told him the truth.

"You."

And then she ran.

Hermione blamed peppermint. She always knew that her indulgence in them would be her downfall one day. Her addiction to the flat white sugar-coated lollies—and everything about them, including their scent—had driven her dentist parents spare as she grew up. Hermione knew moderation was the key to success in life, but for the life of her she didn't seem to be able to curb her voracious appetite for anything peppermint-related.

Even if, as it turned out, it was as detrimental to her health and well-being as a certain grey-eyed, Slytherin blond.

It had all started when she had been partnered up with him for Potions one day. Well, that was a lie. They partnered up for Potions every day. Being one of the few seventh-year students who chose to repeat after the war, she was exactly one of two students who took Advanced Potions II classes for her N.E.W.T.s.

There are no prizes for guessing who the other student is.

Still, everything would have been fine—normal— if he hadn't decided to change his cologne that one Thursday morning after Christmas break. Hermione noticed it the moment she sat down next to him. There was no mistaking that clean, airy, wonderfully refreshing scent that enveloped him like a cloud. The damn ferret had worn peppermint cologne.

Hermione couldn't resist leaning in a little and sniffing inconspicuously.

Or, at least, she thought she had been inconspicuous. The ferret had noticed and had had the gall to smirk in her direction.

That had been the first day he had cornered her after class.

"Hey! Granger!"

"What, Ferret?"

He'd smirked at her uncharacteristically sharp retort. "Nothing. Just wondering if you were alright. You seemed sniffly in class today, like you had a cold."

Hermione remembered flushing hot and cold all over, at the same time. "I'm perfectly fine, thanks, but it seems to be you've taken to hallucinating. Perhaps you should let Madam Pomfrey check you out?"

He'd taken a step closer then and pinned her between the wall and his body, leaning in so she could get another good whiff of his infuriatingly enticing cologne. "Oh, I can think of much better people that I'd want to spend my time getting… checked out by," he'd said, and before Hermione had realised how incredibly lame a pick-up line he'd used on her, he was stalking down the corridor and up the dungeon stairs in his characteristically long strides.

After that, it seemed she started noticing peppermint everywhere, and always in relation to him. At breakfast, Gryffindor table ran out of peppermint tea, and the closest available batch had been located at his place on the Slytherin table. During Potions, when Slughorn declared another one of his 'surprise me!' lessons, he brewed a concoction to lessen tension and stress, known for its characteristic aroma of peppermint. He always wore a precise shade of green—not the mercilessly dark, murky forest green of Slytherin house, but a brighter, more sophisticated shade that Hermione was partial to called peppermint green. It was enough to drive anyone insane.

And then there was that time she's kissed him, although the blame for that particular incident could also be laid squarely at the feet of her peppermint addiction.

…. It was also partially his fault. I mean, if the deranged git hadn't followed her around everywhere, there was no way she would have caved in to her baser instincts and just kissed the damn bastard like he was practically screaming at her to do. But no, instead he chose to tail her between classes (never mind the fact that they had an identical timetable due to their similar choice of subjects of N.E.W.T.s), escort her to the Great Hall for meals (it was just a coincidence that he happened to need nourishment as well), and even had the nerve to sit with her in her beloved Library, with just a scant pile of books between them to shield, unsuccessfully, the alluring fragrance of peppermint wafting from his skin (he most certainly could have found other desks, even though the books he required, like hers, were all found in the Restricted section and her desk was the most conveniently situated for frequent forays into that area).

All in all, Hermione concluded, it was definitely his fault—that and the maddening penchant of his for anything peppermint-related that had seemed to sprout up overnight—that she had kissed him in a secluded corner of Slughorn's party (draped in swathes of peppermint-green silk) two weeks after he had worn the first dash of his new cologne.

"Peppermint Schnapps?" he'd asked when he'd found her alone in her little alcove of green, running her hands wonderingly through the sheer, diaphanous material. He had held out a little cocktail glass of something swirling white-and-green striped, and Hermione had stared at it stupidly.

"Don't worry, Granger, it's not spiked," he reassured her after her mute staring had stretched for an uncomfortably long period of time. "In fact, it's not even alcoholic. I figured you'd be too prissy for it during school hours."

Hermione took the proffered glass suspiciously. "You asked the bartender for a specifically non-alcoholic drink in order to offer it solely to me? What are you playing at, Malfoy?"

Malfoy, of course, had to be dramatic about it. "You wound me, Granger, truly you do. Can I not simply offer you a drink in the spirit of reconciliation and friendship, without possessing a malicious ulterior motive? Besides, I thought we were sort of friends now. You've been distant the past couple weeks. I thought maybe I'd attempt to figure out why the most eminently bright witch of her age was subtly shunning me via some dim lighting and alcohol. Aren't we friends, Granger? Haven't I been friendly?"

"Well, yes, but that was before—" before you started wearing and doing and saying and brewing and practically becoming the embodiment of peppermint, Hermione thought, and hastily took a swig of her drink to cover up her awkward silence. The cool flavour of it tingled pleasantly on her tongue. "—and don't you think your string of long words is going to confuse me in the slightest, Malfoy, I'll have you know that I'm the most eminently bright witch of her age and words like 'malicious' and 'reconciliation' don't daunt me in the slightest."

Draco didn't miss a beat. "And I'll have you know your weak attempt at a cover-up doesn't fool me in the slightest. I may not be the brightest wizard of his age, but give me some credit. Before what, Granger?"

Hermione averted her eyes from Malfoy's gaze. "Before nothing. You must have misheard me. Ferrets are animals notorious for their bad hearing, after all…" she was lying. She knew no such thing about ferrets. But she had to say something to fill up the awkward empty space between them, or—or not-so-empty; Draco had moved in closer to her, a lot closer than he had been before, and when had that happened? Now there was practically no empty space between them, and babbling seemed silly because there was no more space to fill up, and oh gods when had Malfoy become Draco?!

"Before what, Hermione?" Draco said again, and now Hermione was directly eye-level with his throat, around which hung a loosely knotted peppermint-green tie, and it was this coupled with his whispered use of her name that had made her lose touch with her sanity for just a moment. But it had been enough. Because it was in that moment that she had pulled Draco towards her by his infuriatingly green tie and kissed him soundly on the mouth.

Thankfully, that little indiscretion had been interrupted before it could go too far by a small, easily-cowed second year Ravenclaw who had sworn to go to the grave with the secret. Well, his bedroom was apparently named 'the grave', for the next day Hermione had had to clarify to her incredulous Gryffindor friends that no, she had not kissed Draco Malfoy in the back corner of Slughorn's office last night. The small lie had caused only a twinge of regret in her. After all, she was at a party. It was likely she had been drunk (she conveniently forgot that Draco had procured a virgin Peppermint Schnapp for her). And it was not like she had ever intended for it to go anywhere anyway. Why trouble her friends with something that would never result in anything?

Not-so-thankfully, Draco himself did nothing to dispel the rumours flying about, either in the way he treated her or in the way that he absolutely refused to let go of his unhealthy addiction for all things peppermint (not that Hermione herself had this selfsame addiction; oh no, she was totally in control and she could most definitely stop any time she wanted). So it was also mostly his fault that she had kissed him a second time inside Greenhouse Number 5, in broad daylight where anyone could have seen them.

"Relax, Granger, no-one can see us," he'd said, as he grabbed her arm in order to stop her furious striding away from him. "This is the most secluded corner of the Hogwarts grounds. We're blocked from the view of the castle, the lawn near the lake, the Forest and Hagrid's hut. Professor Sprout lives in Greenhouse Number 1, which is currently hidden behind three other greenhouses, and there are no Herbology classes being run in any other greenhouses either. So would—you—stop— squirming?!"

"Let me go, Malfoy! It's the middle of the day! Anyone could see!"

"I see that not a word of my spiel got through to you," he'd sighed, and wrenched open the door to Greenhouse Number 5 and dragged her in. "Here. Take this."

He'd shoved a small terracotta pot with a small sprig of something green with tiny white starlike flowers growing in clusters along its stem. Hermione hadn't intended to stop being angry with him, but she'd had to take a deep breath in order to start her tirade against him, and that was when she had caught the scent of the small green plant in her hands.

Surprise, surprise. It was peppermint. Hermione was completely disarmed.

"Draco—what—"

"You seemed so stressed lately with your bucketload of work and I read somewhere that peppermint alleviates stress, and—"

Hermione had cut off his (rather cute) nervous rambling by kissing him. His response was immediate (and rather gratifying), his fingers coming up to thread in and comb through her hair, so that by the time she came to her sense again and bolted in the direction of the castle, he had been able to smirk at her thoroughly mussed hair and high colour before she shut the greenhouse door in his face.

By the time of their third kiss, however, Hermione was quite running out of ways to pin blame on the slick blond git who was as equal parts sharp, refreshing and alluring as the universally loved plant. Though she did like to maintain it was at least half his fault for being so—so uncharacteristically studious and responsible and thoughtful, and for carrying around with him a peppermint-scented candle and a bottle of peppermint massage oil. I mean, who did that? Apparently people by the name of one Draco Abraxas Malfoy, as he had proved in the library at midnight on the night before their potions essay was due.

"Relax a little, Granger, and go to bed. That's the tenth revision you've written of the same essay. Surely you must be running out of ways to write about the properties and uses of moonflowers in a Restorative Draught."

"Hark who's talking, Malfoy," Hermione had retorted, not even bothering to look up from her parchment. "Isn't that a twelfth version of your essay on the applications of Iberian Scaletongue Balm in Potion-making and Healing?"

Draco might have blushed faintly pink at this, and Hermione found that oddly fetching. Not that she thought he had actually blushed; oh, no, the Malfoy family was much too exalted to have something as plebeian as blood running through their veins. And besides, the lighting was much too dim between them to actually discern such faint washes of colour. But if he had blushed (not that he would have), Hermione thought she would have found the slight flush an attractive complement to his pale skin.

"What's it to you if I like my work thorough?"

At this, Hermione had actually looked up. "Funny, Malfoy, but I never really took you for the hardworking type. What with daddy's enormous fortune and all. Silly me."

Draco scowled. "Well, daddy's enormous fortune is currently all tied up in the Ministry as they examine it for illegally obtained funds and links to dark magic, so there's no guarantee I'll ever get it back. I have to make my own way in the world—shocking concept, I know—and what's it to you if Potions is the way I've chosen? Now, leave me to write my twelfth, and maybe thirteenth and fourteenth revisions before tomorrow comes. And go to bed. You're much too stressed."

Hermione opened her mouth to say something, thought of nothing, and closed her mouth again. Just then, the weak candle between them spluttered its last and went out in a rather decisive manner. The two of them, in the Hogwarts Library, were thrown into a pitch-black darkness.

"Fuck—" Draco swore, and Hermione heard the tinkling sound of something being knocked over. She felt the sensation of something wet dripping onto her skirt, and, with horror, realised that Draco had spilt his well of dark blue ink onto her almost-finished tenth-revision essay.

"Draco—" she hissed, jumping up to shake the ink off her, when she saw a spark leap from Draco's wand to light a tall, thick candle that he placed in the middle of the table. She absently noted the candle's pleasant jade-green colour before she saw the sodden mess that had recently been her almost-completed essay, and threw her wand down in frustration.

"For god's sake, Draco, that took me so long—"

"I'm sorry!" he'd said, and jumped up to hurry around her side to assess the damage. He picked up her wand and offered it to her. "It's not beyond salvaging, you can siphon it off—you know, with Terego—"

"I know," she sniped, irritably, before snatching her wand from him and plunking herself back down on her chair. Draco stood behind her, a passable look of contrition on his face, while she began the interminable task of cleaning her essay. The left side of her neck throbbed, and Hermione winced as she absentmindedly massaged it with her free hand.

"Sore neck?" Draco noted, and Hermione sighed.

"Bad posture. Ever since I was a kid. I should try to fix it, but… it's too ingrained. I just can't seem to write when I'm sitting properly."

Draco was bustling around behind her, and Hermione was abruptly suspicious. "What are you doing?"

"Helping you," he said, and Hermione turned around. He was rummaging in his pockets, and withdrew a small brown bottle with triumph.

"Aha! Found it. Just go back to your essay. I promise I won't hurt you."

It was far too late for Hermione to even think of trying to argue with him. She was much too tired. She did as he bade, and the smell of peppermint (which had been faintly there ever since he had lit the candle, she suddenly realised) unexpectedly increased tenfold.

"What…?" she had just enough time to ask before something touched the base of her neck and she almost jumped out of her skin.

"Malfoy! What are you doing?!" she snapped, but her ire was lost in translation as his fingertips (unexpectedly, wonderfully warm and soft—she had always imagined his touch to be as wintry as snowflakes) started rubbing her neck and shoulders in little round circles, lubricated by a gliding oil that felt pleasantly tingly on her skin and smelled like an amalgamation of all that was heavenly in this world. Hermione resumed her cleaning in a state of almost-bliss.

"… is that a peppermint candle?" she had asked him, when the silence between them had become a tad uncomfortable.

"Yes," was all he said. Hermione raised an eyebrow, not caring that he was in no position to see her skeptical facial expressions.

"Stop judging me, Granger. I like the scent. So shoot me."

"I'm not judging you," she said. "You carry around peppermint massage oil?"

"I have a very delicate right ankle that needs constant attention and rejuvenation. Peppermint just happens to be my scent of choice."

"… I'm still not judging you."

Draco had snorted, then, and the two of them had fallen into a slightly less uncomfortable silence.

When the final drop of ink was wrung out of her parchment, Hermione had grabbed Malfoy by the wrist and thanked him for his massage by pulling him down into another kiss.

The fourth kiss had been even harder to pin on Malfoy, given that it had been in the middle of the day with no alcohol, stress or rush of gratitude for a small but thoughtful gesture to cloud her judgement. It had been a simple, wild burst of hormones from her, and maybe a little bit of infuriating peppermint-scented machination from him. So it was still a little his fault. His. Fault.

He had rubbed some peppermint-and-chocolate lip balm into his lips. That had been it. While they had been walking along a deserted Sixth-floor corridor on their way to Arithmancy, both of them distracted by thoughts of their homework (he looking a little more stressed and rough around the edges than she was used to seeing him), he had absentmindedly fished a little tube of peppermint-and-chocolate lip balm from his robes and rubbed a little of it into his lips. Hermione's rational mind had fled her head out one ear and she had jumped him, awkwardly colliding her lips with his peppermint-scented ones. Fortunately, Malfoy had reacted immediately and smoothly maneuvered her into the wall, all the while slanting his gloriously minty lips over hers passionately and even a little possessively. His fingers had gripped the loose curls at the nape of her neck while hers had bunched the fabric of his grey sweater at his chest.

They had broken for air and Hermione had had a strange tingling feeling not only on her lips but all over her body, inside and out, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. But when she met his fathomless grey eyes with her own, all she had seen in them was an endless ocean of wide-open space, nothing for her to hold onto to stop her tumbling headlong into the abyss.

"Hermione…" he had said in that low, whispering voice that drove her nearly as up the wall as the lip balm she felt on her own lips now. "Can I… Will you…"

"No!" she had wrenched herself out from between him and the wall and run in the opposite direction, away from her Arithmancy classroom and in the direction of her Common Room. The man made her unable to think. And Hermione Granger needed to think. It was what she prided herself on, her ability to think in a clear and unbiased manner in all situations. Except situations when it came to peppermint… and him.

Needless to say, both of them were absent for Arithmancy classes that day.

And now this—this predicament of hers. Everyone talking about them behind her back. Draco cornering her every chance he got. Not being able to even look at her beloved peppermint drops for fear she'd just snap and go running into his arms. Think. Think. Think. And then that night at the Astronomy Tower. What was it Malfoy wanted? What was it that she wanted? Think.

Don't just go running headlong into this, her mind warned. Don't make him another Ron. You'll never be compatible with him. Stay strong. Stay in control.

But Draco isn't Ron, and Ron isn't Draco. Where Ron was meek, Draco was all fire and bite, needing a healthy challenge and a taming hand to restrain him when he got too far. Where Ron was sweetly and guilelessly affectionate, Draco was subtle, preferring secret, thoughtful gestures to show he cared rather than blatant displays of attachment. Where Ron had been unargumentative and deferential to her, too afraid of losing her to ever stand his ground and fight her even when she was in the wrong, Draco fiercely defended himself and his beliefs (whether they were right or wrong was another story) in the face of her displeasure. Ron had admirable traits, but they were not the traits she needed. She needed bitter and sweet together, and the two were perfectly blended in her peppermints and her Draco.

Her Draco.

What are you scared of, Hermione? What are you afraid of?

You, she'd said.

But the truth was, she was afraid of the fact that she was running out of excuses, and she was afraid of the fact that her long string of coincidental kisses with him were looking a lot less like coincidences and a lot more like feelings on her part… for him.

She was afraid that for the first time in her life, the rational choice—the logical choice, the intellectually sound choice— may not be the correct choice.

And after all that, what really cemented Hermione's fall from grace was peppermint toothpaste.

Of course, she never liked to admit to it. After all, she had done some excruciating amounts of thinking in the two weeks between their fourth kiss and the confrontation near the Astronomy Tower. She liked to think she had come to a conclusion to accept it—give it a chance—whatever it may be—before that Friday night when Draco had, once again, found her near the dungeons towards the end of her rounds. To prove that she had come to said conclusion, Hermione often proffered the fact that that particular night she had capitulated and let him kiss her, unlike the myriad other times he had cornered her after their fourth kiss. But the truth was, she would have pushed him away and run, just like all the other kisses she had initiated.

If it hadn't been for that damn toothpaste.

It was evident that this one time, at least, he hadn't expected to run into her. He was pleasantly dishevelled; his hair mussed, his skin flushed, and he was clearly in his pajamas, a soft white t-shirt with some checked emerald-green flannel bottoms. A towel was slung around his neck, slightly damp, but by god, even in this state, if he wanted to do the hot and dangerous thing, he could pull it off. And pull it off he did, the state of his dress be damned. In minutes he had outpaced her and made her forgotten that by all rights, he was the one who should be flustered and embarrassed. But Hermione wasn't complaining.

"Granger," Draco growled, and Hermione—riotous butterflies in her stomach—allowed herself to be backed up to an alcove next to an ugly statue of a hippogriff in full flight. Draco leaned in close, so very, perilously close that she could smell his shampoo and his cologne and his lip balm and god knows what else and him, just him, his own scent as alluring and intoxicating as any peppermint blend she had ever smelled. "Stop running. The war is over. You and I are both single. I want you. You evidently want me. What are you afraid of?"

"I have stopped running," Hermione pointed out, ignoring his other questions. "It's rather hard to run when you're blocking my way, Malfoy."

Draco's arms tensed around her, and he leaned in even more. Their bodies were separated by barely a hair; their lips even closer. "Are you ever going to give me a straight answer?"

"Probably not," Hermione breathed back. "But then again, where's the fun in a straight answer?"

They were so close that Hermione felt more than saw the smirk that graced his lips. "Fair point," he conceded, and then his lips were on hers; and for the briefest fraction of a moment Hermione considered pulling away, backing out; but then the flavour of peppermint exploded across her tongue and then she couldn't consider anything anymore, except the fact that his lips tasted like perfection and that that was surely fire racing through her veins and that he needed to keep kissing her and she needed to get closer to him, closer, closer. And that goddamned peppermint toothpaste was undoing and eroding everything that she was until she was a scattering of particles floating in air, anchored to where she was by only his kiss and the incredible flavour of peppermint on his tongue, on her tongue, on his lips.

Draco pulled away, and for once, Hermione stayed with him. "Well," he said, and Hermione met his gaze steadily.

"Well."

Draco's face split into a cat-with-the-cream-mischievous grin. "If that was all that was needed to fell you, I would have kissed you after brushing my teeth a long time ago."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Oh please, Draco, my self-control is not so fragile that it'd be destroyed by a single application of peppermint-flavoured toothpaste. This—us—was the product of a long deliberation of all the pros and cons of engaging in said relationship. Definitely not a spur-of-the-moment choice brought on by… toothpaste."

"Uh-huh," Draco said, but he didn't get much further because Hermione had pulled his face to hers and he was only too happy to oblige.

But whatever Hermione insisted to the contrary, he secretly remained eternally thankful to his little tube of peppermint toothpaste for the rest of his life (spent with one bushy-haired, fiercely intelligent, proudly Gryffindor Muggle-born by his side).

So, that was it. And I'm just going to say this one thing before I leave- if you've never kissed anyone straight after they've brushed their teeth with peppermint toothpaste, you're missing out. Seriously. It. Tastes. So. Damn. Good. Do it. It's an instant antidote to a shitty day.

Hope you're all well.

~Mint