Twenty Two…

Twenty Three…

Of course, he had learned how to count, how to steady the anxious heartbeats before that traumatizing first Quidditch match and duel against Potter in second year, how to calm the nerves before kissing his first girl…

But this, this Granger sound, was nothing like it.

"That's five minutes and twenty four seconds you've stolen my wand, held me captive, and denied me from being in my rightful place."

He lifted his head up from a magazine he was reading to pass the time, to break the freaking waiting ice while the Mudblood was getting acclimated to her newly (and forcibly) acquired state as his prisoner. She was sitting, her back against the cold wall—for the Room of Requirement was empty, save for two chairs—for his purposes, hands crossed at her chest, face scrunched up in dismay and obvious accumulating discomfort.

"What the hell do you want from me, Malfoy?"

Draco smiled. "Now, unless you behave yourself," he tsked, his free hand whirling her wand in the air, miming casting spells, just to spite her, "Haven't I told you we're discussing this in a civilized manner? I'm not using violence against you unless needed. And here you are, not shutting up about your captivity. I'll just wait. Tell me when you're ready to talk."

She rolled her eyes at his smooth, persuasive voice. "Why do you even bother with me, anyway? Dragging me in for a special interrogation? Couldn't find any other girl to torture?"

He flipped another page of his magazine. "One, I've tortured no girls in Hogwarts, but merely indulged them in what they wanted to do. (She shot him a look.) Two, this is no special interrogation session. It's a negotiation deal we're working on. And three, it is painfully obligatory that I occupy myself with bothering you because, much to my appall and your good fortune (to be in my company), there are no other self-respectable tutors available at the present."

Hermione studied his expression, her face remaining nonchalant. "You mean—you, Draco Malfoy, actually are in need of me?"

"As much as I despise you and Potty, yes."

Much to her own, and Draco's surprise, she chuckled softly. "And you think imprisoning me would grant my 'yes,' to your so-called negotiating deal that I remain your tutor?"

He slammed the magazine down, getting up from his chair to approach her spot on the floor. "Mistakenly, no," he said, "But you didn't give me the slightest chance to ask you with that attitude, either. Believe me, missing a herbology class is a crown jewel to add to your collection."

"In the folders of making out with you? Sure," she attempted to blow a stray strand of her hair off her face, openly disclosing her lethargy.

"Don't even attempt to diverge me off-topic," he seated himself next to her, "I know what you're trying to do, Granger. I've tried that before."

With my Father. He added inwardly.

"What?" she widened her eyes, almost of feigned innocence, "What? Talking about making out with you is off-topic here? Didn't know that."

Now that's news to her. He considered discussing making out with her an off-topic talk.

Draco heaved an exasperated sigh. "If you're not saying the word, I can assure you, you'll be stuck with me for quite sometime."

She whistled. "Quite sometime," Hermione let her thigh brush his—incidentally, and uncovered an implausible, (yet lowly expected) detection: The Slytherin did shiver, as he edged himself an inch farther from her.

"That's too bad. I probably won't," she continued, leaving her sentence hung in the air.

Ah hah.

His squirming exposed the location of her wand to be conveniently (or so she thought) hidden at the back pockets of his robes.

Perfect.

If she had gotten herself into this mess, she had found a way to get herself out.

Now, things might get a little bit messy, but who cared if it would be the last, desperate way of freeing herself from his grasp at all?

Are you sure about this, Hermione? she asked herself subconsciously, watching him watching her out of the corner of his eye, whilst he was pretending to give the (wacked-out) impression of meditating over something vital. Tangling yourself with the ferret?

Can't you just race across the room and—

Tut, tut. She told her disarrayed mind. He'd allow me to do that when hell freezes over.

Or you could have just said yes.

And give in for the what, hundredth time? I know I've sworn it. Now I'm going to make the wish come true. He has to pay for capturing me like this.

Except for the unforeseeable future (to him, then) of Hermione and Draco in the broom closet sharing wet snogs, the other Eight Wonder of the World Harry never thought he would see was right in his hand, rippling like a wave in the wind.

Hermione's detention slip.

"I can't believe she's skipping class, honestly," Ron muttered, while inspecting what Harry suspected not to resemble much of the plant they were supposed to end up with. "And we are not."

Harry touched his own sample of the plant, opening the textbook to the page Sprout was frantically on about. "Hermione must be up to something, Ron," he decided.

His best mate scoffed. "Something? Something worthy of detention? Bless her," he commented flatly.

"She's finally experiencing Hogwarts as it is. As commoners like us."

Meanwhile, Hermione was experiencing a phenomenon quite far from common: Draco Malfoy.

At first it were the little things. Inching closer to him, she drew lazy, teasing circles on his arm, watching in amusement how the hair started to prick, as his shaking hands gradually formed into fists.

Her inveigling hands tiptoed their way pass his neck, gently stroking his mob of blond hair.

Oh, do attempt to stay still, Draco. Her smile seemed to say to his quivering form. You won't last long.

And then her lips went into play, brushing against his, lingering here and there on his forehead, his nose, his cheeks.

The way she shamelessly manipulated herself towards his body, she was, to all intents and purposes, straddling him.

"Wha—"he stuttered, breathing in short huffs helplessly at her wandering hands, "What exactly do you think you're doing, Granger?"

"You'd be a fool not to know, Malfoy," she purred, lips claiming his neck.

"And this time you're not drunk?" he asked, a little startled when she placed his hand on her waist.

Breath in, Draco. Breath in.

For Slytherin's sake—no, for your own, control your feelings. Curb your temptations…

You're not letting her get away with this.

Seduce you to the Inferno, are you?

But, Merlin, she was doing all the right things. Kissing him, touching him, teasing him where it worked. Stimulating his vulnerable spots.

"And this time I'm not drunk," she breathed, attentively manipulating her hands in ways he couldn't resist.

Couldn't abstain from being in contact with her. From giving in.

Oh, the hell.

Fuck this. Granger's being so bloody incredible and sultry it's agony to keep still.

She paused, mute at his fondling of her cheeks, doubtlessly granting him control. He maneuvered them so her back was to the wall, him sitting opposite her.

"A simple yes would suffice," he murmured, before closing his eyes to engross himself in yet another kiss.

"And this time you're not doing—kiss—it, just to entice me, so you can get out?"

Her another hand, reaching to his back for her wand, jumped at meeting his ready hand.

She unceremoniously untangled her lips from his, a nauseated look on her face.

"I know, I know," he stroked her retreating hand, his wand hand gripped firmly on both their wands at his back pockets. "You're asking me, 'How did you know, Malfoy?'" tuning his voice to a girlish impersonation of hers.

This time, she clutched her hands, salacious phrases and words escaping through her gritted teeth.

"No answer?" he grinned, blithely clicking his fingers, "Well, can't say I haven't relish your attempt in trying. Your lips were amazing—(on seeing her widening eyes)—oh, yes, they were."

"It's strictly business, Malfoy," she finally replied, hands crossed at her chest once more, "I'm not kissing you out of sheer liking, if that's what you're looking for."

"Oh, no," he said, "Not at all. Not by the way you're still sitting on my lap."

Frowning, she slid off him as if he were a poisonous object.

"Or even the way you chose to kiss me, to tempt me into being entranced, mesmerized by your charms rather than taking a simple 'yes,' as your ticket out," he winked at her suggestively.

"I—"

"You thought I have to pay, didn't you?" Draco glanced at her face, "For incarcerating you like this? I'm not a Prefect for nothing, Granger."

"Besides, I'm a great actor, aren't I?"

Yes, the hesitant sounds, the stiff way he positioned himself. Utterly and foremostly deceived her.

Pink shades creeping up her features, she, refusing to answer his penetrating questions, snatched his magazine from the back of him. "And what is it you're reading? It's not PlayWiz."

He reddened, fumbling with his hands. "Who told you I read PlayWiz?"

She laughed at his fall into the trap of her own making: distraction. "Every amour-propre wizards do. Just as the way I read Witch Weekly." Hermione scanned his 'magazine.' "Hold on a second, it's my Transfiguration notes bind into a book! So this is why you've been so negligent as to return any of my notes! What are you doing, reading my handwriting?"

"Er, studying?" he answered, dead-pan.

"Studying?" she repeated skeptically, slapping the handmade book lightly at his cheeks. "I don't think so, ferret."

"It was once in fourth year," he said, "I am not a ferret, Mudblood."

"At least I am not a narcisstic playboy of a wizard," she said. "I think you're onto something here…"

He adjusted his tie, in an expression she had rarely seen: nervousness. "The way you're saying it, you were onto something with your effing seductions."

Her turn to blush.

"I hate the way you pretty little blond head always is neatly gelled."

His hand flew up to the top of his head. If she wanted to play this game, fine.

"I hate the way it feels so different when you touch me."

"I hate the way your clothes are so wonderfully, impeccably flawless."

"I hate the adorable way you look when you're irritated with me."

"Did you just say adorable, Malfoy?"

He slapped his mouth. "I hate the way you're always interrupting me with your know-it-all remarks. The way your tantalizing physique distracts me from studying during the tutoring sessions."

"I hate the way you're a Slytherin."

"I hate the way you're a Gryffindor."

"I hate the way you look hot when you're nervous."

"Did you just say hot, Granger?"

She slapped her mouth.

"I hate the way I give in to your seduction."

"I hate the way my name sounds when you say it."

"I hate the way you kissed me."

"I hate the way your kisses on the Valentine's Ball that night are so damn indelible."

"I hate the way I kissed you back."

"I hate the goddamn helpful way you were that night."

"I hate the gorgeous way you look when you're drunk."

"I hate the befuddling effects of your fucking kisses on me."

"I hate it that I'm supposed to hate you."

"And you don't?" she tilted her head to look at him properly, trying to read his mind.

"And I hate it that I don't."

And the particular way he was confessing his feelings told her they might as well not be discussing the matter in the most 'affable, diplomatic,' way, after all.

"You know what," she eased the distance between them, whispering into his ears, "I…don't, either."

As they resumed what they were doing prior to her (sneaky) interruption (of stealing back her wand).

Only this time, she was espousing his loathsome, paradoxically alluring kisses out of her own free will.

A/N: (cheers quietly in the back) I hate the way they're together now. =) Not.

...Now I'm smiling when people say "She's fallen into the Dark Side."....

You asked for longer episodes, and here it is. (smiles)

Thank you for all the reviews and hits I've received,

I can't have done it without you guys!

Your ever humble fanfic writer :)