Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and/or the characters of the original story created by J.K. Rowling.
AN: And so, I'd like to say muchas gracias in 72-point font size to Seyfert. You are one fricking awesome cheerleader, darling! I dedicate this chapter to you, because of your wonderful encouragement and guiding hand. And for that last line at the end. Hee! :)
Chapter Seven: Point Provers
"Granger!"
It is Wednesday afternoon, and because I'd gorged on a large chicken sandwich at lunch, I've been waging an epic one-woman war against sleep and losing spectacularly. Thus, when Peter Mosley practically bullhorns my name, my drooping eyelids fly open, and I launch myself to my feet, sending my chair clattering backwards against my cubicle wall.
"Yes, sir, Mr. Mosley, sir!" I say.
"Aye, aye, cap'n!" teases Phillip, and the rest of the office snigger.
"C'mere," responds Mr. Mosley from his doorway, and trying not to blush because of my earlier overzealousness, I make my way to his office with squared shoulders until, "and you, too, Malfoy!"
Like a nutcracker soldier whose key has exhausted its wind-up, I stop walking.
Ever since the May Day picnic, I've been avoiding Malfoy, and have been successful thus far. The less I'm in his presence the less opportunity he has to 'win' at whatever goal he's set out to achieve concerning me. Alas, some divine hand has begun to meddle yet again.
I feel a pair of hands clamp onto my upper-arms and begin to walk me forwards.
"Come on, Granger," says Malfoy, "we don't want to keep the boss waiting."
"Let me go, Malfoy!"
Of course, he doesn't.
"Gods, why don't those two just shag already?" whispers Meredith to Phillip as we pass by.
Phillip snorts. "Please. The day Granger spreads her legs for—"
Even I am surprised by my swiftness when I unearth my wand and hex Phillip with a Suidus charm—a charm that transforms its victim's words into embarrassing pig squeals. The remainder of Phillip's insult comes out in a high-pitched squeal that ends on a nasal snort. Meredith gives me a dirty look before turning to Phillip, and I can hear Malfoy laughing behind me.
"Who knew you had it in you, eh, Granger?" he says. "Very nice."
I smile, despite myself, feeling proud and very pleased with Malfoy's approval.
Inside Peter's office, Malfoy finally lets me go, and though I miss the presence of his hands on my arms, I pretend not to notice the loss. Peter looks at the both of us, his beady black eyes looking like little beetles trapped in his head as they shift left and right between the two of us.
"So, you two have finally done it, then?"
I open my mouth in shocked protestation. This has got to be some kind of violation of workplace privacy! Why does everyone care so much about my bedroom activities…especially with Draco Malfoy? Merlin knows they've all probably begun some sordid betting—
"Bugger. Guess Olson was right. My bid for Saturday was too far," Peter continues, looking disappointed.
…I'll need an expensive solicitor. No sense hiring cheap if I want my lawsuit to become successful. Inexcusable, slanderous and vilifying accusations from pornography-watching co-workers, violation of workplace privacy by outrageous employers, unwanted (but enjoyed) sexual advances from gorgeous co-workers…I suppose I'll get a good three-hundred thousand galleon from this…
"Actually, sir," Malfoy pipes up, "we haven't. Yet."
…or maybe six-hundred thousand because I'll be going after Malfoy and all his money as well…
"Here's to success then, eh?" replies Peter with a wink at Malfoy.
"Indeed, sir," nods Malfoy with a smirk.
I am just about to voice my very righteous indignation when Peter begins:
"Now, I've got two invites for that new restaurant that opened up in Hydensaw last week. The bloke who owns it is willing to pay handsomely for a review in Bewitched. See where I'm going with this?" He doesn't wait for us to answer. "Good. So, I want the both of you to have a look at it on Saturday, write something nice and give it to me on Tuesday next week, yeah?"
He retrieves two envelopes from the drawer of his desk and holds them up for us to take.
"What's the name of the restaurant?" I ask sourly, still peeved.
"It's in the envelope, Granger. Everything you need to know is in the envelope. Just be there on Saturday at eight."
Peter makes a shooing motion with his hands that signals the exhaustion of our welcome in his office. Malfoy leaves first, and I'm following behind him when Peter calls after me:
"And Granger, do something with that hair."
Like a good journalist, I fire up my laptop and immediately do research on La Bouchee—the name of the restaurant that Peter has requested I review. I don't acquire much information on its background or even its founder, but I do learn that it serves French cuisine at astronomical prices that only the absurdly wealthy or the absurdly foolish would pay.
But that does not concern me, because along with my invite came the written—and signed—assurance that anything and everything I order will be free. I vaguely wonder if they'll take kindly to my ordering three extra meals and two bottles of wine as takeaway…
The rest of Wednesday goes by without incident, and so does Thursday and Friday. I hardly see Malfoy because, finally, he's doing the job he's been hired for, and my other important side projects of winning an online Scrabble tournament and honing my artistic abilities in Paint have kept me incredibly busy. I don't even notice his absence. Honestly. I really don't.
Ok. I probably missed him just a bit.
But at least it wasn't as though I was sneaking glances at him while he was typing away at his computer. And it wasn't as though I was wondering whether he'd noticed the new perfume I was wearing. And it really wasn't as though I was considering going over to strike up conversation with him. I absolutely did not do any of those things!
Ok. I probably did do some of those things.
But that doesn't matter, because, now it's Saturday, the day of the dinner with Malfoy, and I'm honestly not anticipating it. That's the furthest thing from my mind right now. There's lots more important matters to utilise my brainpower on! I'm so unconcerned about this evening's proceedings that I won't even mentally assess my wardrobe and ponder on the perfect article of clothing to wear. And who cares about my hair, anyway? Surely not I!
However, I've got to make a good impression on the restaurant owner, haven't I? Tonight, Malfoy and I will be representatives of Bewitched, and it just wouldn't do for me to appear as though I threw on anything that came to hand. Frankly, I don't care what people think about me, but it wouldn't hurt to look presentable. Not to mention, Peter did order me to do something with my hair. I've got to keep Bewitched's image in mind!
So, really, wearing that fabulous, figure-flattering turquoise dress wouldn't be that bad. And those new stilettos I bought on sale too. And those diamond studs with the accompanying necklace Ginny gave me for my birthday is hardly overdoing it! It's all for the company. I must look my best all for Bewitched's sake!
Therefore, going through the trouble of straightening my hair is really no trouble at all, whatsoever! There'll be no personal gratification from this! No ulterior motives to be achieved! I'm not out to look good for any special person! And so what if I'm going to this dinner with Malfoy? It's not as if he'll notice my efforts or compliment me, or even give me an appreciative once-over. That's not what I'm after!
Honestly!
It's really and truly all for Bewitched!
It's an hour into our meal and it's more than apparent that my six-hour task of transferring myself into a head-turning beauty has been all for naught.
Malfoy doesn't even offer me a polite compliment on my appearance let alone spare me a glance.
I am gutted. I want to push away from my seat and run crying home in a very dramatic manner.
I feel so unutterably foolish! Why would I ever believe Malfoy would pay me any attention? Regardless of my best efforts, I'm sure Malfoy must have been in company with women ten times more beautiful than I could ever hope to be. So what if I'd ventured wearing make-up at Lavender's over-the-phone commands? So what if I'd suffered to wear stilettos with heels as bony as toothpicks? So what if I'd come grossly underdressed for the chilly spring weather? I would never be able to truly get his attention.
Not that I'm looking for it.
Oh, who am I trying to fool? Only myself!
I want Malfoy to want me. To truly want me, and not as some kind of game. I want him to notice me. To value me. I want him to see I'm worth his time, even though the prideful part of me declares, on a daily basis, that he is not worth my time. And I don't want to get his interest just because I look pretty. I want him interested in what makes me me.
And to an extent, this scares me a little. Makes me a bit angry too. Heretofore, I'd been happily cruising along in life, comfortable in my beliefs when it came to romantic entanglements. Yet, within mere weeks, Draco Malfoy has completely shifted my focus, eroded whatever hard groundwork I'd set in my mind about love.
I mean, not that I love Malfoy.
Really. That's…just ridiculous.
"That broccoli's not going to eat itself, Granger," says Malfoy as he feasts heartily on his veal. "Nor is it going to disappear anytime soon even if you keep shoving it around your plate."
"Mind your own business, Malfoy," I reply sulkily. "You're not my mother."
"Thank Merlin for that. To have borne and raised a snotty little sourpuss like you surely must have been quite the task."
I scowl. "Pot, kettle, black and all that jazz."
He stops eating and leans back in his chair to survey me.
"What's got your knickers in a twist, Granger?"
"Why are you interested in the condition of my knickers, Malfoy?"
"It's a figure of speech." He leans forwards, smirk half-formed. "Unless you want me to be interested in your knickers?"
I stand up abruptly. Anger flooded my blood so quickly, it's as if it had been floating around in the air, intermingled with the oxygen I intake with every deep inhale. Without saying a word to Malfoy, I grab up my things and make for the door, proud of myself for not teetering embarrassingly on my heels.
Outside, it's still cold, and I'm digging through my purse looking for my wand when I hear Malfoy behind me. He hasn't said anything to identify himself, but I just know it's him. I dig through my purse even faster.
"I can take you home," he says quietly after my evident searching has yet to produce my wand.
I make a sound of great disbelief. "Of course you can. And after you take me home, you'll find some opportunity to manoeuvre yourself between my legs." I turn and face him. "And what happens after that, Malfoy? When you've won, what next? You go telling all your old Slytherin mates? You go telling the Daily Prophet to print it on their front page? You go telling the entire Wizarding world that you fucked Hermione Granger?"
His forehead creases into a scowl and the corners of his lips draws downwards.
"How ironic, Granger. Hasn't that been your intention with me?"
Faced with my hypocrisy, my anger quells. Earlier, I'd marched out of the restaurant, properly vexed that all Malfoy seemed to want from me was sex, yet, I'd become interested in him in the first place for that very same reason. I suppose that what irritates me the most is that regardless that I am, indeed, the one who began this game, somehow, Malfoy has managed to take the reins; to constantly be one step ahead.
I am the spoilsport, getting agitated because I'm losing.
Or maybe I'm becoming agitated because I don't see this as a game anymore…
But further contemplation on that train of thought is dangerous.
"You know what, Malfoy? It has," I say, feeling determined now. "It has been my intention all along. I was to find you, friend you, feed you, fuck you, then forget you. But I'm thinking maybe it's better for the both of us if I skip the fourth and go right to the fifth."
Malfoy steps closer. "Is that right? And I suppose you think that's so diplomatic? Everybody wins, right, Granger? No. Sounds an awful lot like cowardice to me. Gutless."
I bristle. "I am not gutless. I am just fed up of whatever this is going on between us and it needs to stop."
"It needs to stop because it's not going your way. Gutless and selfish. Why don't you just finish what you started, Granger? Or have you always been all talk but no action?"
He's baiting me. I know this. And yet, I cannot stop the vexation. I cannot stop the feeling that I do indeed have something to prove. Prove it to him and shut his big fat mouth up. I am no coward. Hermione Granger will never be a coward. I don't know what Malfoy's aim is but I suddenly have come to terms with mine: as easily as I can have sex with him, is as easily as I can—and will—forget him. Therefore, my job will be complete.
I close the distance between us and kiss him.
I don't know how we've managed to get into my living room, but I'm sure Apparition must have been involved. And because I know it wasn't me, I'm vaguely impressed that Malfoy can still maintain enough concentration to perform Side-Along Apparition whilst snogging.
He begins walking me backwards in the direction of my bedroom, but the nearest wall obstructs us so we opt to lean against it instead. One of his hands grips my hip while the other keeps my neck in place as he kisses me. He is not as gentle or as smooth as when he'd first kissed me in the Electronics room. There is anger in his kiss; I can feel it with every swipe of his tongue against mine, and the way his fingers keep clenching and unclenching around my neck.
But I don't mind, because I'm just as irritated too. If he thinks he can cow me or has set out to 'teach me a lesson' then he'll be grossly disappointed. His roughness will not deter me. Whenever he bites my lip, I'll bite back. Whenever he squeezes my neck, I'll squeeze back as well.
"Not backing out, Granger?" he whispers against my lips.
I retort: "Is that hope I hear, Malfoy? Who's the gutless one now—"
He shuts me up with a kiss as he relocates his hands at my shoulders to shove the straps of my dress down my arms. There's a moment where I hesitate allowing the material to fall thereby exposing my braless upper half, but pride and feeling Malfoy's smirk against my lips forces me to let my dress puddle to the floor at my ankles.
He pulls a little away from me to stare at my body. I dearly want to reach down, pick up my dress and cover myself from his gaze. My bravery points have now been entirely used up. Self-consciousness reigns supreme within my heart when I consider the svelte, celery-stick munching type of women Draco Malfoy is probably used to, and that I'd never be able to compare.
"What?" I say defensively, terrified that there's some sarcastic barb on the tip of his tongue waiting to be hurled.
But he says nothing. Instead, he reaches for me and pulls me in for yet another kiss. No longer rough, softly, sweetly, he moves his lips over mine before he parts them. Explorative, teasing and frustrating in its unhurriedness, he kisses me even as his right hand slides over my hip, waist, sternum to cup my breast in his palm.
Against my will, I moan. Soft little whimpers escape from me as Malfoy squeezes and fondles my breast and rolls my nipple in the gap between his thumb and forefinger. Intuitively, I tilt my head back, sighing as his mouth grazes downwards past my chin, over my neck to place feather-light kisses along my shoulder blade.
Then, as his lips meander further downwards, I sift my fingers through his hair, moaning again when he takes my breast into his mouth. My body seems to be moving of its own accord. I no longer have control of myself. Despite my writhing, Malfoy holds on to me, giving my breasts equal, laving attention, his tongue gentle yet persistent in each stroke and curl and flick against my nipples.
I can feel the subtle tingling between my legs, and my entire skin becoming warmer. With every passing second, I'm growing less hesitant of my actions and more agitated with this slow pace. No longer am I smoothing my hands along Malfoy's shoulders. Instead, I grip the lapels of his dinner jacket and try to ease it off.
He releases my breast and kisses me.
"Someone's in a hurry," he says in husky tones. "Do you want me that much, Granger?"
Attempting to sound haughty despite my breathlessness: "I just think it's really unfair that I'm already down to my knickers and you're still fully clothed."
"And I think it's really unfair that you're not completely naked yet, Granger. But I guess patience is a virtue, hmm?"
"A quote invented purely for procrastinators to feel good about themselves."
He laughs softly.
"So, I'm wasting time, then?" he replies as he shrugs out of his dinner jacket and drops it on the floor. He yanks his shirt from the belted confines of his trousers and begins to unbutton it. With uncharacteristic brazenness, I lean forwards and brush his hands away, unbuttoning the remaining buttons myself.
"I think that's the first thing we've ever agreed on."
When his shirt hangs open, I take the opportunity to splay my fingers over his stomach and rove my hands upwards, thoroughly enjoying the firmness and warmth of his skin against my palms. A part of me is still amazed that this is reality, that right now, I am standing three-quarters naked with Draco Malfoy in my living room, that, inevitably, we're going to have sex.
I should feel hesitancy, shouldn't I? At this point, as Draco toes off his shoes and I mine, there should be a moment where common sense is awakened from its deep sleep and reminds me that this is not a bad idea but a disastrous one. Even now, as he's kissing me and walking me backwards to my bedroom, alarm bells and shrill whistles and flashing neon signs reading: STOP! STOP! STOP! should be revolving in my head…
But there's nothing like that. There's no doubt or hesitation as we sink into my mattress. No admonishing voices of reason as we discard the remnants of our clothing. And there's certainly no revolving warning signs as our mouths and hands explore each other, as our bodies meet and learn and become familiar with a rhythm as old as time itself.
No, nothing like that at all. Instead—and much to my great surprise—there's only a sense of rightness, a sense of being accosted by clarity as Draco makes love to me. And that is what he does. Despite our hastiness and our roughness from the beginning, everything slows down, becomes gentle and mellow. He does not fuck me nor I him, and gone is my earlier determination to 'prove a point'.
Instead, a point has been proven silently to me:
I've found him, befriended him, fed him and made love to him…
But I don't think it'll ever be possible to forget Draco Malfoy.
Shit.
AN: That's right, Hermione. I bet he proved that point to you real good. -:cheeky grin:-
