Dinners at the Malfoy Manor were a routine state of affair. When Draco was younger, there had often been guests – rich and pureblood and bigoted, of course. Sometimes there were other children, but it made no difference, as they were never allowed to play or talk at the dinner table. From a very young age, Draco had been dressed up as a tiny adult for dinner and was told to speak only when spoken to. As a teenager, he had been allowed to converse, providing he said something sensible – although he had misjudged on several occasions and earned the wrathful glower of his father.

There were never any guests these days. It was just Draco and his parents sitting around the absurdly large and ornate table, dressed in formalwear out of habit.

Draco had been distracted all evening. Lucius had been talking about something and on several occasions Draco found himself agreeing with him about Merlin knows what. His mind was elsewhere. Where exactly, he could not have said, but it wasn't at the Manor.

Draco downed his glass of wine and poured himself some more. His mother looked at him with concern.

'Is everything alright, Draco?' she asked.

'Absolutely,' he said, putting his glass back down before he could gulp down its contents.

It wasn't until later, when he was pacing his bedroom, that he realised what he was feeling.

It wasn't something he felt very often – that sharp bite of sexual desire – but every now and again, it got under his skin, clouding his thoughts. An inconvenient reminder of his own humanness.

He'd always gone to Pansy for help. In school there had been plenty of dark corridors and abandoned classrooms to scurry into for release. Pansy was always enthusiastic, pleasingly warm and wet – but it also meant having her whimpering breathily in his ear, her hands crawling like spiders over his body. And afterwards, she always wanted to lie entwined with him, stroking his hair and cooing.

Draco didn't think he could face all of that at the moment. Besides, she was usually angry lately when he turned up, accusing him of neglecting her. Sometimes, she threw things at his head, but then dropped to her knees and sobbed for him not to go. It confused him.

Draco opened his window and stepped out onto the balcony, willing the air to cool his heated blood. The wine had probably been a bad idea.

He found himself thinking over the day.

Hermione had been in a good mood, humming to herself. Every so often Draco tried to guess the tune but she always shook her head, grinning. Her warm, russety brown eyes sparkled when she grinned. It must have been windy on her walk to work, or maybe she had slept funny, but her hair looked a little more unkempt than usual, wilder. Draco thought he could get lost in that hair, bury himself in it and never emerge. She changed it every now and again, wearing it as a sleek waterfall or delicate ringlets, but Draco found himself missing the chaos of her usual hair.

Draco groaned, nesting his head in his hands. He could feel his body reacting as he thought about Hermione, remembered her fingers curving to hold a quill, the way her neck craned when she glanced behind her like it was asking to be kissed, the numerous faint freckles he'd noticed on her face and on her forearms when she rolled her sleeves up.

And that smile, that lovely smile that seemed to make the whole world brighter. How could he ever have thought her teeth were big? Had that ever been true or had he made it up to be cruel?

Well, there was certainly no way he'd be able to go to Pansy now; she'd be too pale a substitute for what he craved. He'd just have to take care of himself. Not for the first time, he was glad that his parents' room was in an entirely separate wing.

The next day, Draco thought it was a miracle Hermione couldn't tell he'd been fantasising about her. Surely his face told everything, revealed that he had soaked alone in the bath to the image of her lowering herself onto him.

'Draco, are you alright?' Hermione asked, frowning. 'It's just that I've asked you the same question four times.'

'Must have been in a world of my own,' Draco said hurriedly. 'What was the question?'

'Just what your thoughts were on the decoration for the fundraiser next week. Protheroe wants unicorns everywhere but I think it's a bit tacky.'

'Oh, er – I don't know, what about bowtruckles then,' Draco said.

'Bowtruckles?' Hermione asked.

'Or hippogriffs or augreys or snidgets,' Draco supplied.

'Are you feeling quite well?' Hermione asked.

Of course not, I'm falling for you, Draco thought savagely.

'You don't seem to have got much work done,' she added.

I've been too busy thinking about you.

Draco forced himself to offer a shaky smile. 'Just one of those days, you know.'

In a way, Draco supposed it was nice to have something different to worry about; this was definitely a bigger, scarier problem than that of people gossiping about him.

For a brief, insane second, he allowed himself to imagine asking her out. She'd look a little surprised but mostly flattered. Even considering his present vilification, Draco was quite the catch. Maybe they would go dancing. Draco was a skilled dancer, and the soft, romantic music would send her straight into his arms. She would sigh and lean her head on his shoulder, her long, supple body flush against his.

Indulging in fantasy had been a mistake.

'Come on, it's time to go!' Hermione said, shaking him out of his daydream.

It had become their little custom to ride out of the Ministry together, often chatting a bit on the street above before going home. It had happened without Draco really realising about it. Neither of them really needed to exit the Ministry building – they could have just apparated straight home. On his part, it had become a way to prolong their conversation; perhaps the same was true for Hermione.

Draco was just about to suggest the Black Heron when Ron Weasley came sauntering out of nowhere like the cat who'd got the cream.

'Hi, honey,' he practically purred, sweeping Hermione up in a most unnecessary kiss. Draco despised every stupid ginger hair on his stupid head.

'Oh, isn't that just adorable,' Draco said with heavy sarcasm. 'Didn't think your brother even stocked that much love potion for you to get a girl, Weasley.'

'Aren't singles bitter?' Ron said to Hermione. 'Don't worry, Malfoy, I'm sure Mummy and Daddy will find you a nice little Death Eater wife… eventually. Too bad Auntie Bella croaked or you could have had her – I know purebloods like to keep it in the family!'

'You're pureblood, too, asshat,' Draco said through gritted teeth.

'Both of you, stop it!' Hermione said sternly. 'We all fought on the same side in the end.'

'At the eleventh hour,' Ron said, scowling.

With a mocking bow, Draco stormed off. He refused to glance backwards but in the end couldn't resist; Hermione and that giraffe of a Weasley were walking in the opposite direction, holding hands. Something painful snapped in Draco's chest.

A bloodcurdling scream ripped through the night.

Draco turned around quickly, trying to figure out where the noise had come from.

There were more screams, shouts, noises of panic.

It should have meant nothing to Draco. He wasn't a hero, after all. He was not the kind of person songs were written about.

'Oh, for Merlin's sake,' Draco groaned, heading in the direction of the screams.