Disclaimer: It's J.K. Rowling's world. I just play.


It's the following morning. The beautiful rays of the sun trickle through the curtains of Blaise's loft, offering a stark contrast to the lingering scent of firewhiskey in the air. Ginny emerges, looking content, a few moments after I wake.

Malfoy wakes as she comes into the room, stretching and looking around to orient himself.

Our eyes don't meet.

Ginny and I speak briefly, discussing our arrangements home. She leaves again to go say good-bye to Blaise.

Malfoy and I are left alone in our awkwardness.

"So, Granger," he starts.

I put up my hand to stop him.

"Don't," I say, softer than I intended. "You don't have to explain."

"Right," he says quickly, and I feel his temper rising next to me.

My mind is a blur of the night before. The warmth he offered, that amazing sequence of kisses. Was that really Draco Malfoy I was kissing? Were his lips really on mine? Did I really, truly enjoy that?

"You know, Granger," he begins again, but this time I don't stop him. "You snog better than expected for a mudblood."

My blood curdles at his words, meant to be joking but so entirely inappropriate.

"You don't snog so bad yourself, for an ignorant inbred," I snap back at him.

He smirks. I hate that smirk.

"So say I wanted to snog again sometime and I was in the mood for something a little dirtier than my norm..."

I scoff, more than slightly embarrassed at the smile about to betray my scowl.

"Can I get a contact or something?" he asks, that cocky tone still abound.

I tell myself repeatedly there is no possible way this is a good idea, even as my hand writes the address to my flat.


Ginny and I are back at my flat an hour later, discussing the night's events.

"So, let me get this straight," she says, appearing confused. "You and Malfoy, you and Draco Malfoy, snogged last night?"

I don't answer.

"Completely, fully snogged?"

I still don't answer, but I feel the blush come up my cheeks. I look away, letting the silence drag on.

"So was he any good?" she finally asks. She moves her head a bit, trying to catch my eye.

I do the best I can to continue avoiding her gaze, but she catches it just as I'm about to look the other direction. I know she senses the glint in my eyes, and I bite my lip to not agree out loud.

"Un-freaking-believable," she whispers, throwing herself back on the couch.

"You're telling me," I mutter.

"So are you two going to see each other again?" she asks, though she seems a bit unsure of whether she wants the answer.

"He has the address to the flat," I say, offering no other information.

"Wow," she says, shaking her head. "Me and Blaise. You and Malfoy."

"I am not with Malfoy," I say strongly, believing it with every ounce of my being. "Only a right git would hook up with the likes of him."

"Right," she says quietly, but I can tell she doesn't believe a word I say.


I spend the rest of that day in a bit of a shock, but nonetheless getting down to the rest of my business. I have a promising internship with the Ministry of Magic that may well prove to be the focus for my career. I work for Ron's father, researching muggle artifacts and the many ways wizards can make them go wrong.

I'm currently working on this project that involves a poor old wizard in Northern Ireland who accidentally levitated his house, basement and all, when he had only been aiming for one particularly nasty fairy that had baited him to his front porch. He did indeed succeed in levitating the fairy, but his entire residence along with it. Given he lives in a rather populated area in a rather large city, we're working to track down all the muggles who might have seen the "Mysterious Floating House," as the muggle tabloids called it, and perform the necessary memory charms to render the entire episode as just another false story in the eyes of the public.

We get cases like this all the time. My job is almost always to track down all the possible muggles who might have been involved in such an incident, interview them properly yet without suspicion, and perform the necessary memory charms if need be. Since I come from a muggle background, I'm one of the more suited interns for this sort of project.

Tonight, I'm looking into the muggle housing unit where the man is directly located and searching through to compile a complete list of the muggles in the area. Our only saving grace is that the man was only able to levitate the property about 20 meters or so.

Usually I'm a complete and utter perfectionist with my work. I do my work quickly and efficiently, and I am always ahead by weeks. Tonight, though, I'm distracted.

I'm distracted, I can't quite think straight, and I therefore turn in for bed just as I finish my work throughout the rest of the coming week.

Last night was such a bad idea.


It's early the next morning, and I'm thinking about him. I utterly cannot stand the idea that I'm thinking about him. He's arrogant. He's pureblooded in that inbred kind of way. He's proud of his ignorance. He's the epitome of everything I never want to become.

And he's a bloody amazing kisser.

I hate that I'm looking out the window in case his owl comes. I don't even know what his owl looks like. I hate that I'm listening for the slightest knock on the door. I hate that any part of me is at all curious, even in the least bit, about him. I hate that I'm considering him. I hate that I let last night happen. But most of all, I hate that it was so good.

I scoff at myself, trying to ignore the sensation of his lips on mine that refuses to go away. I try even harder to convince myself this curiosity will, in time, most definitely kill the cat. And in this instance, I'm showing remarkably feline tendencies.

I tell myself that he's most likely one of Voldemort's leftover followers. I try to tell myself that he's most likely one of Lucius's most faithful followers in some kind of up and coming regime. I remind myself of all those terrible things Voldemort did, and all the terrible things in which Malfoy specifically played a role.

I try to tell myself of all the things Malfoy is probably still involved in, being a prat the least of all.

I tell myself he knows all sorts of things I'd never want to know. He's involved in all sorts of things I'd never, for the life of me, wish to be involved in. He's involved in parts of the world I'd rather not know exist, and probably in some parts I don't know about at all. Parts I'm better off not knowing.

I tell myself it's a bad idea. I tell myself over and over that it's a bad idea.

But that doesn't stop my heart from skipping a beat when I see a graceful grey owl pecking at my window. That doesn't stop me from opening the parchment that reads:

My flat. 7:00 pm, tonight.

I'll be there to apparate you at exactly 7:00. Don't be late.

D.M.

It also doesn't stop me from taking my parchment, dipping my quill, and writing out a response:

I'll be here.

H.G.

And it doesn't stop me from placing that parchment gently in that beautiful grey owl's beak, stroking its feathers lightly, and watching it fly away into the beautiful sunrise beyond.