Chapter Four
Draco tapped his quill and stared at the clock. Just ten more minutes to wait.
He looked across the office at Hermione, who possessed far more sangfroid than Draco had ever credited her for. While he had been fidgeting and throwing her heated glances all morning, she had been calm and focused, writing and filing and reading like it was an ordinary morning following an ordinary night.
"Hermione."
"Settle down," she said.
"Why not start early?"
"Because we wasted yesterday afternoon," she replied, flipping through the book to her left, "and it put me behind."
"I wouldn't say it was wasted," he groused.
"No," she amended, at last looking up from her paperwork long enough to smile at him. "You're right. It wasn't wasted." A warm feeling spread through Draco's chest. "But it still put me behind."
She bent back to her work, and Draco grinned up at the clock.
Eight minutes. That wasn't so long.
An eternity later, a minute had passed.
Draco withdrew a piece of parchment and, with a series of complicated wand movements, charmed it into the shape of an Antipodean Opaleye. He sent it flying to her desk, where it made two laps around Hermione's head.
"Draco."
The dragon settled onto her shoulder, where its paper fangs began worrying at her hair.
She sighed, sheathed her quill, and scooped the paper dragon off her shoulder. It stood proudly upon her palm and blasted an impressive jet of shredded parchment onto her wrist.
"Really?" she asked rhetorically, shooting Draco a half-amused, half-exasperated look.
"It has a mind of its own."
"I think I know exactly whose mind it has," she deadpanned, setting the dragon onto her desk. They watched it strut around, looking very much at home amongst her other personal effects. Draco looked at the clock again. Five minutes.
"Have you accomplished anything this morning?" she asked.
"Of course," he said. "It's snoozing by your inkpot."
She sighed and stood, straightening her blouse (pale blue) and smoothing her skirt (dark grey and delectably snug).
Draco stood as well, trying not to look too eager as he assumed his position between their desks. He sat on the edge of his desk and leaned back on his arms, giving his hair a roguish toss.
"Do you need another moment to preen?" she asked with a quirked eyebrow, settling into a similar position across from him.
"No," he answered. "You?"
She fidgeted. "No, I only wonder… Are you sure about this?"
He smiled and reached toward her. Hermione took his hand and allowed him to pull her into the space between his legs.
"I was sure about this before Weasley interfered," he whispered. With that, he bent his head and captured her lips in a deep, astonishingly perfect kiss.
Some part of him knew when Weasley entered. He heard the horrified gasp, could almost feel the murderous stare, but those sensations were entirely secondary to the feel of Hermione in his arms. Regardless, they had discussed this very moment the night before. Had rehearsed it, upon Draco's suggestion, to ensure that he wasn't so overwhelmed that he forgot his part.
And practice did, indeed, make perfect. Without breaking form, Draco lifted his hand and made a shooing motion at the ginger interruption.
In response, Weasley let loose a string of expletives and slammed the door.
Hermione broke this kiss, resting her forehead against his.
"Sweet revenge?" Draco asked her.
She laughed and opened her eyes, which sparkled as they met his own.
"Better than that," she said. "Silent, but deadly."
The End