Disclaimer: The characters of the Harry Potter books belong to J.K. Rowling and other affiliates. We are borrowing them for the sheer pleasure of fan fiction. Also, the title for this chapter is from the song "Collie" by Howie Day.

Author's Note: We'd like to apologize for so much delay. I guess it can be blamed on us having lives. Also, we'd like to dedicate this chapter to Maz because she's greatness. J Anyway, we are now here to deliver and we sincerely hope that you enjoy!

-&-

:The Charmed Life:

.…even the wrong words seem to rhyme….

-&-

He was staring. Again.

Normally, Pansy wouldn't mind if a boy or anyone really, for that matter, was staring so intently at her. In fact, she relished in being the center of attention (since she hardly ever got stared at unless she was doing something outrageous - like dying her hair odd colors). But Harry Potter's unwavering gaze on her chest was rather…unnerving. Of course, she knew he was staring at her necklace but considering the bright red stone was nestled snuggly between her breasts and since she'd taken off her robe, he obviously was getting a nice look at her rack, as well.

"They're real," she stated, absently as she flipped the page of the textbook in front of her. He looked up at her curiously from across the table and she met his gaze, one eyebrow arched and clarified. "My breasts. They're real."

Even though a faint blush stained his cheeks, he kept his eyes levelly on hers. "They're nice."

Pansy blinked. She hadn't expected him to flirt back. Momentarily flustered, she ran a hand through her hair and slightly shook her head. "Yes, well, I would give you the necklace if it would make the lewd staring stop but it's a family heirloom. Sorry Potter, try the Weasleys. I am sure they have valuable accessories to hand down to you."

Harry's eyes narrowed at her, his mouth fixed into a scowl. "I don't want anything that's been in your family, Parkinson. Who knows what disease I'll catch."

Now this is much better, she thought to herself. Insulting Potter, she knew. After all, she had learned from the best. "If power is a disease then yes, you'll catch it. Maybe it'll even do you some good and finally help you pass your NEWTs without the help of your Mudblood. Tell me, what exactly is it that you do for her that makes her so grateful?"

"That's enough!" he bit out, eyes flashing angrily behind his glasses. His hands were gripping the edge of the table

"Oh how precious," Pansy continued as she leaned back against her chair. Amazing, she thought inwardly. He's gorgeous when he's angry. "When someone attacks you, you're quite calm and yet, when it's your precious Hermione being slandered you come out, teeth bared. How noble of you, Saint Potter."

Harry stared at her, forcing an outward expression of neutrality in the face of her sneering. Pansy Parkinson, despite the pug-faced look of her childhood, had grown up into quite a pretty girl. She took care of the way she looked and always changed her hair color to keep people guessing. She was easily one of the most attractive girls at Hogwarts and quite a few wizards lusted after her, despite her prickly personality and snobbery. But at the moment, staring into Pansy's mocking, icy blue eyes, Harry was harshly reminded that even the most attractive girls could be cold as stone. He may have flirted with her unintentionally, but it would be best for him to remember that she was a Slytherin, Draco Malfoy's girl and she was probably a Death Eater in-the-making.

With extreme effort, he focused his attention back to the project; her comment was not worth dignifying, he said to himself. "We still haven't picked the other plant."

The businesslike tone of his voice was strangely disappointing to her. She had rarely witnessed Harry Potter's famous outbursts, rarely seen him…so furiously passionate about anything. Usually, Draco was the one relaying the scene back to her; she always missed the good stuff. She rather enjoyed egging him on, just to see that fire come into his eyes. Right Pans, a voice reminded her cruelly. This is Potter. Stop obsessing about his fucking eyes. Clearing her throat, she mimicked his tone and replied, "I don't have a sodding clue. But I haven't been through this entire text yet. Unfortunately, I have to go."

"What?" Harry asked, confused and then suspicious. "If you think you're leaving this up to me, Parkinson…"

"Oh don't flatter yourself Potter," she shot back as she stood up and started to gather her things. "I would never trust you with anything, least of all my grades. I do, however, have to leave. I have detention with Flitwick in ten minutes."

Merlin, she didn't want to share that. Especially since that information only caused him to smirk smugly. He leaned back against his chair and sighed dramatically, "Of course you do."

"Shove it, Potter," she retorted as she flung adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder and grabbed her robe. "I'll let you know if I find anything. This has been a real pleasure."

Before he could say anything, she was stalking away from him. He sighed and then his eyes caught something on the floor near her abandoned chair. Bending down he picked it up and realized it was a photo frame. He glanced up to see if he could stop her but the doors of the library were swinging shut. Curious, Harry turned the photo over.

A much younger Pansy, about nine or ten, pug-faced and smiling, waved to him as she twirled around in the arms of a young boy, at least thirteen. They had the same crop of dark hair; the resemblance was striking. Parkinson has a brother? It was strange; he had never given much thought to Pansy and her family. Why would he? Still, he didn't remember seeing or knowing of another Parkinson in Hogwarts. Maybe he goes to Durmstrang.

Shrugging, he put the picture into his bag along with his books. He'd have to return it to her later.

-&-

It had started to drizzle by the time Draco called an early end to Quidditch practice. Seeing as the team had played in more violent conditions, a little rain certainly wouldn't knock anyone off their broom—but that's what he was afraid of—Slytherin was playing Ravenclaw in a week and Draco had every intention of winning. While most of the team had already headed for the locker room, he spotted Blaise in the distance, demonstrating the art of flying upside down to a small group of admirers who crowded around him. As the rain beat down faster, Draco squinted to get a better view and was surprised to see that unmistakable shock of red—was that the Weaselette standing in the middle?

Imagining the look on the Weasel's face upon hearing of his sister's little rendezvous brought a dry smile to his rain-wet lips, and he mentally noted to congratulate Blaise for his tremendous efforts: a buggered Weasel and a hot red minx.

He maneuvered his broom in the opposite direction, and ascended into an easy glide, only wishing the state of his mind could be that easy. Ever since that detestable ki—no—that detestable thing with Granger, he'd promised himself to obliterate, any remnants of that God forsaken thing. Which of course, in a classic example of the purest irony, meant that it was all he could think of.

His mind had become completely infiltrated with Granger. Flashes of Granger asleep in the common room with her stupid hair falling on her stupid face—the firelight treating it like a canvas, brushing tinges of yellow her cheeks and lips—and in that moment, when he was sure that breath had become a commodity, he willed himself to believe that she looked like an unattractive lemon with all that hideous yellow. Flashes of Granger's pathetic, wide Bambi eyes that held the intensity of the fire—that unattractive lemon fire—in the room when she sleepily called out his first name, and then had the gall to just lay there with her swollen lips parted, almost challenging him. But what the foolish girl didn't realize, lying prettily like a sodding lemon, was that when God gives you lemons, you go for it.

And of course, the only reason a Malfoy would even consider such a filthy act was to prove to himself that even though Granger had gotten boobs and teeth, she would still remain that annoying know-it-all with a pinched face and a sour mouth, which he would suck dry. And that was the only reason he did it.

But fuck, how wrong he was. Calling his lemon therapy a failure would be an understatement because her mouth tasted of fresh berries popping under the mid-morning sun. He was lost in a moment of instantaneous pleasure, and bloody hell, how was he to know she'd be the best kiss of his seventeen years? That distinct taste soon stained his senses and he kind of liked it when she looked in to her eyes and asked him to do it again. He assented, but only because Malfoys never went along with a first trial basis.

But, hell, Draco was buggered when he had stood under the shower and the water wasn't enough to wash away the stain of her taste.

Like this rain water wasn't enough to wash away thoughts of Granger, or at least make them soggy.

No, instead they hammered continuously at his hyperactive senses and it was like two nights ago all over again. Kissing Hermione Granger was unlike anything he had ever experienced before; his brain had shut down and he was operating on pure feeling and it was a damn good feeling. And now, he kept seeing the scene playing over and over again. Every breath, every touch—he shuddered. She wouldn't leave him the hell alone.

Stalking bitch, he narrowed his eyes suspiciously and scanned the field as if expecting her to be hiding in some corner, waiting for the perfect moment to jump out with her two protectors. He snarled and ascended higher into the air.

Even at the prefects meeting, she had approached him first, all coolly and professional, to discuss the night before, when it should've been him who should've stalked up to her, spit at the likes of her, and notified her of her reserved position in hell. And how dare she call the thing a mistake—only he would decide if it was a mistake or not! And even though she had decided correctly, that filthy wench had no right. Like she had no right to ask him what he thought of the thing because his thoughts were his own and he damn well didn't want to share them with her. Especially since she was basically cupping Weasel's balls (he was surprised he even had any) throughout the whole meeting. Okay, fine, so he only saw her hand on his knee, but he was sure as hell that it just didn't hang out there to have a dainty little tea-party.

Behavior like that was unacceptable and should be decreed as illegal when it's directed towards a red-haired smarmy git. And he made up his mind right then and there to serve as an accomplice in whatever way Blaise needed him to get into the Weaselette's knickers.

Which only made him think of the Weasel getting into Granger's knickers. He had the overpowering urge to scream, and he was just so tempted to as he scanned the field for a second time. Damn fucking Granger to fucking hell, for all that he cared.

The blood was rushing to his head and his whole body was curdling with anger, and all he wanted to do as he dismounted his broom and stalked across the field was to give Granger a piece of his crazy, infested mind.

-&-

"You miserable, sodding cat."

Hermione flopped down on the couch in the Heads' common room and let out a groan. Crookshanks was in one of his moods and had taken to running around her room with her knickers between his teeth. In her nightgown, she had chased him around her room before he has escaped into the common room. Fed up, she resigned herself to the fact that Crookshanks would only give up her knickers when he was done with whatever adventure he was looking for tonight. Of course, after that she'd have to throw away that pair. They were old anyway, she thought sourly and laid her head against the cushions, half lying/half sitting on the couch. She had been operating on four hours of sleep and had thrown herself into classes, duties and homework with more fervor than ever before to avoid thinking about her nightmares. And to avoid thinking about the Head Boy and his lips.

A determined Hermione equaled an exhausted Hermione and now, nothing could make her move from her comfortable position.

It was this position that Draco Malfoy saw her in when he entered the common room, moments later, returning from the Slytherin dungeons. He stopped short at the sight of Hermione Granger sprawled on the couch in nothing more than a white nightgown. Years of conditioning had served him well, as he managed not to let his jaw drop in surprise as his eyes traveled up the length of her legs. Her white nightgown had ridden up mid-thighs, exposing the creamy, slightly toned limbs as they draped over the edge of the couch.

It was odd to see her in such a state of undress. In seven years, he'd only seen Granger in the school uniform and occasionally her Muggle clothes when they were in Hogsmeade. He'd never paid that much attention to her clothing but it was obvious that Gryffindor's Golden Girl was always dressed neatly and sensibly, and never in anything that could be considered risqué. The only thing that would be considered unmanageable about her appearance was that mess of hair on her head, so it was quite a shock to see the Head Girl so…mussed.

Like she's just been snogged senseless, he thought to himself and immediately frowned. Hermione still hadn't perceived of his presence and from his vantage point, it became increasingly clear that the Head Girl had in fact, recently engaged in a torrid game of tonsil hockey. The last time she looked like this was the night he found her asleep on the sofa. When I'd snogged her senseless. He scowled furiously at the thought of her kissing some other boy, probably the fucking Weasel, while he was brooding, sulking and bloody distracted, about their own lip lock. It was unacceptable.

"This is unacceptable," he stated loudly by way of announcing his presence as he stepped further into the common room.

Hermione sat up, startled, a hand clutched between her breasts. A tendril of her hair had escaped from the messy bun on top of her head and was falling over her eyes. He tried to squelch his disappointment as her nightgown fell over her legs and instead focused on her face. "Malfoy? What are you talking about?"

"Oh come off it, Granger," he said with a careless flick of his wrist. She stood up and they were facing each other now, a good two feet away. His eyes narrowed and he let his gaze slip to her shoulders. "You've had a boy up here. Is that the Weasel's hair I see all over you? Shedding again, is he?"

"What?" she stated, mouth gaping open.

"You and the Weasel," he stated slowly as if talking to a small child, "engaged in a disgusting tryst in the middle of our common room."

She let out a disbelieving laugh. "You're mad."

He simply arched a perfect eyebrow. "I wouldn't put it past you, Granger."

"How dare you! Where in the bloody hell do you go off accusing me, Malfoy?" Hermione raged through gritted teeth, eyes flashing and cheeks flushing red. How embarrassing! She had been so tired she hadn't even realized that Malfoy could have walked in any second to find her in nothing but her thin white nightgown. And for him to think she had been shagging Ron? Preposterous! Inconceivable.

"So you've made it a habit of just lying around on the sofa in practically nothing, then?"

"I was chasing Crookshanks and not that it's any of your business but Ronald and I are no longer a couple!" she informed him, crossing her arms under her breasts, unintentionally pushing them upwards as her fingers curled into her palms. Oh she was feeling that familiar itch to slap him again.

A scathing comeback died on his lips as Draco's gaze along with his blood ran downwards. Even in the dim light he could see her nipples straining against the fabric and the tops of her breasts were pushed above the bodice of her nightdress. When his eyes locked on hers again, the anger swirling in her eyes was mixed with curiosity and… lust as awareness rippled between them, taut and tense. His blood stirred hotly in his veins and his throat suddenly felt dry as her tongue darted out to moisten her lips.

Malfoy's eyes darkened, mercuric and brilliant and Hermione was acutely aware of how exposed she was to his gaze; belatedly realizing that her stance was quite provocative.

Suddenly, the itch to slap him became another itch altogether.

Before Hermione could even think about what was happening, she felt herself move forward and meet Draco halfway, closing the distance that was separating them. Their bodies collided, his arms snaked around her waist and she grabbed his face between her hands as their lips fused together in an angry, heated kiss.

Bloody hell, Draco cursed inwardly as he parted her lips and slipped his tongue into the soft, sweetness of her mouth. What am I doing? The answer to his question, however, was lost when a soft sigh of surrender came from somewhere inside Granger and her tongue glided against his, battling for dominance.

Moaning, he drew her closer, molding her against him, his hands traveling down to rest on her surprisingly firm arse. Granger gasped as he pressed himself to her and they broke the kiss. He pulled away to see her eyes wide with surprise, fear and lust and he didn't waste time to claim her lips once again. She willingly yielded to the kiss, running her hands down his shoulders and under his robe and shirt, scratching her blunt nails over the skin of his chest. Emboldened by her response, he let his hands travel up her sides, and then snake between their bodies to cup her breast against his palm through the fabric of her nightgown.

As Malfoy broke the kiss again and started to trail his lips across her jaw, Hermione's mind, which was always sharp and logical, was blurring with the sensations that were taking over her body. Even as her brain protested, her body seemed to be in control now, cheerfully ignoring the alarm bells and loving the feel of Malfoy's hand all over her. No one had ever touched her like this; she had never allowed this sort of groping even with Ron.

It was intoxicating and exciting; sensible Hermione would never be found in a position like this, with Malfoy, no less!

But it was as if her mind was cut off and she just couldn't think. She just felt: his lips, surprisingly soft her own, his body, hard and firm pressed up against her own curves and his hands, gently yet urgently kneading her breasts. She was lost and it felt utterly wonderful.

Hermione broke the kiss this time and Draco gasped for air as she pulled away from him, her eyes clouded and lips attractively swollen. Draco had kissed quite a number of witches in his seventeen years but never did he think that anyone of them looked as undoubtedly…sexy as Hermione Granger did at that moment.

In fact, she looked positively bewitching.

"What have you done?" he asked her, his voice hoarse as he disentangled himself from her and staggered backwards. It was a spell, a curse. Of course, why didn't he think of it before?

Her eyes widened and her hand went to her mouth. "Me? I didn't do anything."

"Was it the Imperius? Is that what you've cast on me, Granger?"

For the second time since he had walked into the room, he was flinging ridiculous accusations at her. It was unbelievable. Suddenly all the wonderful feelings and sensations he had inspired in her only moments before quickly evaporated and now she just felt intense anger.

"Are you implying I had you under a spell so that you could shove your tongue down my throat and paw at me?" she shrieked, hands on her hips.

"I did not…paw at you, Granger." He sounded as annoyed as she felt which only caused indignation to be added to the mess of things swirling around inside her. "And I believe you're the one who scratched me."

There was an intense throbbing in her head and she pressed her fingers to her temples and closed her eyes, trying to calm herself to keep from hexing the bastard where he stood. "You kissed me. Twice."

"You responded. Twice." She didn't have to open her eyes to know he was smirking.

Biting back a retort, she heaved a sigh and opened her eyes to look at him again. "We cannot do that again."

Draco wanted to remind her that that is what they had decided upon last time but instead, scowled, "Don't worry Granger, it won't happen again. I've sullied myself with the likes of you to last me a lifetime."

Before she could retort, he turned around and left her standing in the middle of their common room. Hermione lowered herself onto the sofa, flooded by an intense sense of déjà vu.

-&-

To be continued...