A/N: Love to you all! I'm in a bit of rush to get this out today instead of tomorrow, so excuse any mistakes. And I'm normally better about responding to reviews, so please give me your patience there! Thanks for reading!


Saturday, September 25, 1999

Flying is easy. Zipping through Bludgers and winding over jerseys. The gasp of the wind in my ears overpowering any whispers.

What isn't easy, is the ginger glaring at me before we take off. Or the way Potter glances at me after the ginger takes him aside.

I have to remind myself that we aren't friends when Goldstein talks about drinks after practice. I decline, and I see Potter's shoulders drop in relief.

I get out of there before the Weasley girl tries to scream at me.


Sunday, September 26, 1999

At least we win against Magical Games and Sports. Ginny Weasley finds a way to put it all aside for the match, because she passes to me when I'm open and I slide the Quaffle just past the Keeper at the last second.

Goldstein hugs me in mid-air, almost knocking me from my broom. I let myself smile. Just once.

Potter looks like he wants to talk to me as we're heading to the cabins to shower and change, so I just grab my things and exit – as much as I would love to let Potter see the scar he dug into me as I change my shirt.

I'm casting a quick Scourgify over myself as I reach the edge of the pitch, and I hear a voice from a small distance away, chanting, "Go! Go! Gryffindor! Go! Go! Gryffindor!"

I turn to glare at the voice, and find myself looking into familiar, laughing eyes. My feet stop.

Pansy.

She smiles at me, like it's only been days since we've seen each other. She looks older.

I wonder if I do, too.

I think of the letters and notes she wrote to me for those fifteen months, and the denied visitation requests.

"You look good in red, Draco." She lifts a brow at me, and runs her eyes over my uniform.

We Apparate to a brunch place we used to go to in the summer before fifth year. Vincent used to order the French toast and the pancakes together and sit quietly eating next to Greg while Pansy, Blaise, Theo and I chatted. I blink.

"How's the Ministry?" she asks, once we've placed our orders. "Are you on your way to becoming the next Minister of Magic?" She teases me under lowered lids as she brings her teacup to her lips.

"Hardly." I stir in the honey. "It's as you would expect. A desk job with several of my least favorite people in England."

"How much longer do you have?"

"Eleven weeks." They could not pass soon enough. "And you? You're studying under Madame le Roux?"

"Ah, so you did receive my letters." She pats her napkin against her lips, and lifts a brow at me.

I feel heat come to my cheeks. "I read them. I didn't know how to respond."

"Oh, come now, Draco." She smiles. "I wanted to hear all about the exciting things going on with you. 'Today I walked around my cell counter-clockwise instead of clockwise. Today I was kicked by only one guard!'"

I stare down into my teacup.

"Who else is working with you?" she changes the subject – one of her strong suits. "I saw Anthony Goldstein today, and a few others I recognized. But Ginny Weasley – isn't she flying for the Harpies?"

"Mm-hmm. But she's Potter's girlfriend, so it seems she gets a free pass."

"Hm. Just like a Weasley." Pansy smirks, and we're thirteen again, picking apart the weak and laughing. She finds my eyes and says, "Always reaching for the cream of the crop, especially when they're unworthy."

And suddenly we're talking about a different Weasley, somehow. Another of her strong suits. I hold her stare, waiting.

"Who else works there, now?" She shifts in her chair, and I realize she's been working toward this for several minutes now. Working toward her. Pansy is marvelous. But I swallow.

"Katie Bell."

"Oo. Rough."

"Some idiot named O'Connor. He was a Gryffindor."

"I think I tripped him once."

"A few older Ravenclaws are Unspeakables."

"Naturally."

"That Kingsley fellow is Minister—"

"What about Granger?" She sips her tea, watching me.

"She's on the 4th Level. Magical Creatures."

"Hm. Seems right. Do you have to spend much time with her and Potter?" She sets her teacup down. Barely a click.

"Potter, I do. He'll bring me cases to research."

"But not Granger?"

"No, we have no need to directly interact."

"And indirectly?" There's a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. My fingers curl around the napkin in my lap.

"There's no need for that either."

"Hm," she hums, and I'm looking down at my saucer when she says, "What a shame. You were always so fond of the indirect interactions."

I can't bring my eyes to her. My tea is too hot, but I let it burn me as I sip.


Saturday, October 7, 1995

"Don't you want to find a classroom, Draco? It's so cold in the hallway."

"Shh. I'll keep you warm." I hum into her ear, pulling her against me. She laughs.

"What if someone catches us? Isn't this Granger's night for patrol?"

My hand stills on her hip. "Is it?" I kiss her neck. A small gasp escapes her. "Come on, let's go down here." I take her hand and pull her towards the hallway intersection.

"Don't you want privacy?" Pansy digs her heels in, and I almost yank her forward. We're going to be late. "I can't do all the things I want to while we're in the hallway, Draco." She whispers my name against my ear and I give her a shiver for show.

"Really?" I say. "I can think of plenty of things I can do to you in the hallway." I send her the smile that always works, and I drag her down the stones. I check my timepiece while she's trailing behind me, and see that we should have three minutes. Unless she took a different route. Unless she's early.

"Draco—"

I hush her with my mouth. I press her into the wall, and immediately slide my thigh between her legs. She squeaks and giggles. I hold her head still while I kiss her, opening her mouth, tilting her head, pouring my breath into her. She clutches my shoulders and I think I can hear footsteps.

My hands slide down, and round over Pansy's backside. She gasps. I pull her against me, sliding her along my thigh, pressing higher and she moans.

I hear a gasp, from twenty paces away, just near the hallway intersection. I press my tongue into Pansy's mouth again. I massage circles into her backside, and she's grinding down on my thigh. Good girl.

There's silence behind us. Pansy's hands twist into my hair, and she pulls my head down to her neck. I pinch my eyes closed to keep from searching for her face as I attach to Pansy's neck.

Where was the clearing of the throat? The indignant noise before she called my name?

A chill races through my veins when I realize that she's watching. I bite down on Pansy's neck and she gasps. I bring my hands to her face, kissing her mouth again as I let my palms wander down the front of her, grazing her chest and pressing against her stomach.

I want her to see this. I want her to know what I can do.

I hear quiet footsteps when I reach under Pansy's skirt, and let my fingers dance toward her. She's coming closer? Pansy groans, and I realize I'm snapping my hips against her.

I listen, hoping to hear her breathing, or the sound of her heartbeat. And the footsteps are getting softer.

I can't help it. I lift my head, and turn to where she's supposed to be. And there's a figure disappearing down the other end of the hallway, curls bouncing, head turned down.

Like I'm not worth the effort.

"Draco?" Pansy whispers against my cheek, and I realize I've stopped. Stopped everything. I feel Pansy turning to follow my gaze and I snap my head to her, taking her mouth again.

She was about twenty paces from the end of the hallway. I wonder how loud Pansy can get in twenty paces.


Sunday, September 26, 1999 – later

Pansy chats about her new fashion line she hopes to build. I get to bounce ideas off of her for the consulting group. We don't talk about the war or Hogwarts or hallways. When we separate, she makes me promise to write to her. She'll be in France for the foreseeable future, and I wonder about running away to the vineyards again.

I pop through the fireplaces at the Manor, ready to head upstairs, bathe, and just lay in silence until dinner.

"Mr. Malfoy, sir!"

I stop. I turn. I glare.

Mippy is smiling up at me.

"Your mother is requesting you in the library, sir!"

I clench my jaw. "Thank you, Mippy."

As I walk down the hallway, I shake my shoulders out, trying to focus on the qualities of a loving son.

I knock lightly and push open the doors. "Mother, you wanted to see me?"

She's sitting delicately in her chair, teacup beside her. She beams with mischief when she sees me, which is not my favorite expression.

"Draco! Home already!"

She has plans. I refrain from rolling my eyes and I step in the room.

"Yes, I was out with—"

But there's a figure in the chair next to her, still as a stone and I lose all my words when I see her sitting there, ankles crossed, floral skirt, holding a teacup. Like she belongs perfectly.

Which I suppose she does.

And her hair is fucking wrong again.

Her eyes are huge and waiting, and I forget that we're not alone, and that the entire reason she's here is because Mother is absolutely insane.

Mother smiles at me, eyes bright. "Draco, dear." Sickly sweet. Who is she fooling? "I invited Hermione to tea today. Didn't I tell you?"

My jaw tightens. I think of the two of them, sitting for hours, talking about me. Mother forcing her to discuss our past and our time at the Ministry, and has she told Mother about Friday? About never wanting to see me again?

"No, you didn't."

"Please join us, Draco." Not a request.

I'm about to ask Granger to excuse us so I can have a moment to scream, when she does exactly that. She stammers something about getting back to the bookstore, and I wonder how it is that she's even here and not at work. She drops her teacup on the side table with such a noise that it rattles for minutes afterwards, humming in the room.

Mother frowns and talks about setting up another time for tea with her, and she's practically shaking as she nods, standing and grabbing her bag.

Run, Granger.

"Draco, will you please escort Hermione the fireplaces?"

My jaw may break. My teeth grind against each other, and I'm about to snap for Mippy to take my place when she's mumbling that she can find her way.

"Oh, nonsense," Mother says. "It's no trouble, is it Draco?" I've seen this look on her before. When I was much younger. She used to give me this look when I was about to embarrass her in front of her socialite friends.

I snap into the guise of someone with nothing to fear and nothing to hide and I open the library door for her. She turns to thank my mother and Mother is asking her to call her Narcissa. That I do roll my eyes at. My mother catches it as Granger turns to pass me, her scent blossoming in the air she passes.

I lead her to the fireplaces, concentrating on the destination and not the too-loud footfalls or the way I can feel the air move between us.

Just when I think I'm done. Just when I feel the air start to lighten, and the end is in sight, the elves – the usually silent elves – drop something in the drawing room. Her head turns, and she stares at the door.

I wonder if she knows where she is, and a spike of heat darkens my eyes when I think that Mother could have met her elsewhere.

I see her eyes on that door, her burning curiosity. And she needs to leave before she sees the chandelier crashed again and the hole in the ground where her body spasmed and the wrecked fireplace where –

"Renovations." I hear myself.

I feel her eyes on me, so I offer her the Floo powder and she disappears, leaving only her scent behind.

I watch the fireplaces for a moment longer. Then I turn on my heel, and head for Mother.

I push the doors open, and Mother is reading contentedly, sipping her tea.

"She's not engaged," she says. She flips a page.

Something releases its grasp on my ribs. And I swallow.

"We had an argument on Friday, and I think it's best if I stay away from her."

Mother looks up at me, brow raised.

"What kind of an argument?" she asks, sly as a fox.

I don't think Mother knows about the Auction. Being the wife of a Death Eater, she is no stranger to the crude and violent people that lived on her estate a few years ago, but I don't want her to know what I would have done. How I would have kept her.

I blink away the thoughts. "It doesn't matter now."

I turn and close the library doors behind me.


Thursday, September 30, 1999

She's been inescapable all week. I've joined her in the lifts, I've met her in the café, and now I'm working directly with her on a case.

Draco Malfoy

Analyst and Consult

Department of Magical Law Enforcement

Auror's Office

Thank you for the detailed report on the incident regarding the dragon egg. The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures would like as much information as possible on the physical attributes of the egg itself so that we may begin to identify the breed.

A response at your earliest convenience.

Sincerely,

Hermione J. Granger

Analyst and Research Assistant

Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures

Beast Division

Dragon Research and Restraint Bureau

I roll my eyes at her scratchy penmanship and civility.

I write back:

It was shaped liked an egg.

No formalities. No titles. No greetings. I smirk as I imagine her opening it, storming around her cubicle, demanding justice and competence.

It's already sent off when I realize that pulling an emotional response from her is the wrong thing.

I bite my cheek and wait.


Friday, October 8, 1999

"Draco." Mother's voice stops me as I stand from the breakfast table. "I request that you be at home tomorrow evening. Please cancel any plans you may have with… Katya."

She hisses the Slavic name like it's disgraceful against her tongue.

"Alright," I say. No point in arguing over plans I don't have with a girlfriend who's not mine. "What scheme do you have planned, Mother?" I bring my teacup to my lips and finish my tea.

"Hermione is coming over tomorrow."

I cough. I grab at my napkin and pat my chin before the tea stains my robes. She's smiling. She timed it, hoping I would choke.

"What are you playing at?" I hiss at her.

"Nothing, dear," she says. "I made a new friend and I'd like to keep her."

"Then why do I have to be there?" I hiss. "I really should be seen out with companions on Saturday evenings –"

"Should the three of us go out then?" She smiles at me.

I frown back. "Suitable companions." My blood heats thinking of being photographed with her. Sitting at a table with a white cloth and wine glasses while Mother chats and approves and the world sees a happy family, and all my father sees is betrayal. And weakness.

"I can't think of a better companion for your reputation," Mother says. She begins to put jam and clotted cream on her scone. "Skeeter would be ecstatic, don't you think?"

I'm tempted to make her choke on her scone, as she made me choke on my tea, but I decide to speak before she takes a bite.

"Father wants me to stay away from her if I am to receive the inheritance before I marry."

Her butter knife stops its journey to the jam. And my mother, snapping her head to me, eyes dark with fury, says, "Poppycock!"

I chuckle. There are moments when I find my mother so precious. And I feel if I don't laugh, I'll scream.

"He said that to you?" she demands.

I nod, and look at the stone beneath my feet. "He gave me a portion of my inheritance to work with until the new year. But the rest would only be released if he was sure I remained focused."

I watch as she rolls her eyes and smooths her napkin on her lap.

"Well, what your father doesn't know, won't hurt him." She pops the bite of scone into her mouth and chews.

"Perhaps just the two of you should have dinner. Like I said, we had an argument…" I swallow and blink away the sight of her watery eyes as I asked her if I could have bought her virginity back then. "I said all the right things to make her hate me." I look up to my mother. "She won't agree to dinner."

"She already has." Mother lifts her brows at me. Mine pull together.

What game was Granger playing.

"There didn't seem to be anything out of sorts the last time she was over," Mother continues. "She was perfectly happy to visit, and even talk a bit about your shared time at Hogwarts." My eyes snap to her while she smirks and brushes the jam with little flourishes. "Perhaps, you're not as evil as you think, Draco."

She pushes the scone past her lips and grins at me.

"Or perhaps, she's a fool," I say.

I turn to leave and head to work.


Saturday, October 9, 1999

I take afternoon tea with Noelle Ogden. I've seen her at holiday parties over the years, but we've never had an opportunity to really get to know each other. She's several years older, and currently at a Muggle university in the States, so we catchup on a few things.

I bring up the consulting group, and begin opening doors for asking to sit down with her father.

I stay out past dinner time. I'll deal with Mother's wrath later.

I finally pop through the fireplaces just past eight, and prepare myself to run into her while she's leaving. Silence in the hall.

I wander towards the western dining room, ready to join them if they're still eating. I turn the corner and Mother is sitting, reading a book at the table.

"She didn't show?"

She looks up at me, displeased. "She did. She's in the library, browsing."

"Suddenly we're a used book shop?" I shoot at her. She glares back at me. "I'm sorry I missed dinner, but –"

"You didn't." She smiles at me. "Will you please check on our guest?"

I frown. "You waited for me for dinner?

"I didn't," she says, flipping a page in her book. "Hermione had errands to run as well." She looks up at me with a wide smile, and three place settings appear on the table. "Perfect timing, really."

I stomp out of the dining room, feeling like knocking something over on the way out. I trudge to the library and when I open the doors and cannot immediately see her, I realize I'll have to search for her, like a fucking servant.

She's not far from the main stacks. Her back is to me, and her hair is down, falling past her shoulders. I'm tempted to knock my knuckles on the wooden stacks as a hello, but this is my fucking library and she has no fucking business being here. I'm about to say something prickly, that will hopefully make her jump, when I see that she's juggling several books in one arm. She's got one open on her elbow, reading the Table of Contents, and she's balancing the rest against her hip and chest.

It's all very nostalgic. I swallow. I remember seeing her this way in the Hogwarts library, never pausing to set anything down and never levitating.

I conjure a basket. I clear my throat. I clear my head.

She jumps and her eyes grow round when she sees me. Her cheeks flush, and I hope I'm still frowning at her.

When she sputters out that she's just borrowing books, I realize I shouldn't be giving her a basket. She should have to fumble these books all night. Through dinner even.

"I know," I say. I step closer to her, and twirl the basket between my fingers. "I told my mother that she was foolish to think that you would be able to carry your selections out with you without the aid of a small sled. So she sent me to give you this."

I extend the basket to her. My insult didn't come out nearly insulting enough. I can tell because she's watching me closely as she takes the basket from me, and breathing deeply. I let her organize the books, and I'm just two steps away from her, breathing her in.

"My mother would like you to join us for a late dinner."

And just as I suspected, she has no idea about staying for dinner.

"What? It's half past eight!"

"Yes, that's why they call it a 'late' dinner, Granger." A fire lights behind her eyes as I talk down to her, and I try to refocus on the matter at hand. "The table is already set for three. She is waiting on us."

She stutters, and tries to say she's not hungry, and the blush on her neck is distracting me as I tell her dinner is not optional.

"Just because you are unable to say 'no' to Mummy, doesn't mean no one else can," she snaps. "I will apologize to her directly and decline."

She sticks her nose in the air and something clicks into place inside of me.

I grab her arm as she tries to walk around me.

"Look, you silly bint." I wait for her face to turn up to mine, and there's something burning inside of her. "You have chosen to befriend my mother and pester my household—"

"To clarify, she chose me—"

I cut her off, squeezing the flesh of her arm just a bit tighter. "And for whatever reason, she has invited you to dine with her this evening, going out of her way to eat later in the evening so she could fit into your busy schedule—"

"I tried to come over after dinner" she screeches. She's taking shallow breaths, eyes flickering back and forth between mine.

"—So I don't know what your intentions are for being here, haunting my library, and playing house with my mother—"

"I find your mother to be a wonderful conversationalist, a generous host, and all-around lovely person. It's a shame those genetic traits ended with her."

My skin is searing where I have my fingers wrapped around her. She is glaring up into my face, insulting me like she used to, and it would be so easy to push her against the shelves and taste her – give her imprints on her back.

Something crosses her face, and she pulls her arm back, breaking our eye contact. And I miss everything.

She marches out of the library, with theatrics that I remember from school. I follow silently, and smirk as she goes the wrong way out the doors. I lean against the doorframe and try to look smug.

"Granger."

She turns and glares at me as I gesture toward the right. She huffs and lets me lead her through the house. I hear her slow several times, and when I look over my shoulder I see her looking at the art on the walls, and even once stopping dead to take in the sunset through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

I wonder if she likes it. The Manor.

I blink and keep moving, hearing her catch up.

Mother smiles as we enter the small dining room, and when I take the basket from her arm, she looks suspicious. I pull her chair for her and she looks suspicious. I sit down across from her and she looks suspicious.

My mother encourages her to take the entire library home with her, and I watch as she smiles easily at her, and I look down at the table cloth. It's white. It's blank. It holds no memories or feelings.

I breath into its emptiness.

"I almost took the signed copies of the Lance Gainsworth series to read again, but your mother was telling me how much you love them, Draco. I'd hate for you to part with them."

Like ice water poured down my back, and fire licking my front all at the same time.

Draco.

I meet her eyes.

She sends me a mischievous smile that reminds me far too much of my Mother's, and I focus on what she's saying about the books before I even comprehend she's found my Gainsworth series.

I grimace back at her. "That was very kind of you, Granger." And I can see that Mother is quite pleased with herself. "And which books are you leaving with tonight?"

She frowns at my accusation of stealing our books, and continues to speak directly to my mother. The concept of blocking her out is infinitely harder when her voice is floating through the room, and I try to focus on the way her tone swings up on words to a pitch that is almost annoying.

The first course appears on the table.

My breathing is even. My eyes are taking her in. And my hands are steady.

Just in time for Mother to bring me back into the conversation.

"Draco, you've heard about Hermione's Gringotts project, yes?"

"I can't say that I have."

She starts on her pitch. Something about the dragon at Gringotts. When she's done with her story, I see her look down at the soup, and catalogue the spoons. She quickly glances to my mother to see which spoon she's selected.

It's abhorrent. Not precious.

"And you think the goblins will be willing to do things a different way?" I ask, and I'm almost certain she watches my soup spoon meet my lips.

Her eyes flip away and she says, "I think negotiation is always possible."

I laugh. The most non-negotiable person I've ever met…

"I've worked with them personally several times over the past months. They are not amenable to wizarding changes."

She's dipped her spoon in the soup by now. I wonder how her lips will look, pouting around the utensil. Or maybe because she's not been trained, the spoon will disappear between her lips –

I blink.

"Then we will have to make them see—"

"You can't make a goblin see anything." I cut her off. She's forgotten about her spoon and maybe I can too.

"The Ministry will be able to mandate laws that will force the goblins to comply," she says. Her cheeks begin to blush and I feel an answering response in my own. There's a flicker behind her eyes and I want to see it spark, so I use the precise word to set her off.

"So you think goblin rights should be subordinate to wizards law?"

Her eyes widen and her jaw drops and my chest is warm. I'm smiling before I can stop myself.

"I said no such thing-" And I cut her off again, speaking just close enough to the truth that it will set her off.

"The negotiations will only work if you get what you want, is that right Granger?" I relax back against my chair, and watch as she blinks rapidly at me, and I can feel her hand against my cheek again—

"Draco."

I had forgotten Mother was here at all. An excellent cool down.

She puts her spoon down. "The only thing I want is for no further harm to come to magical creatures by Gringotts' hands. There is a better solution out there, and I want wizards and goblins to agree upon it."

I notice she hasn't taken a bite of pumpkin soup yet, and perhaps she shouldn't. She doesn't deserve it.

"Maybe it is the best solution, Granger," I say lazily. "Maybe you're not the first person to start this fight, only to find that keeping a dragon in the bowels of Gringotts is the best security method there is."

I look at the tablecloth, the soup bowl, anywhere but her. Like she's inconsequential.

"It must not be the best method if three seventeen-year-olds were able to free it and ride out on its back last spring," she snaps, and when I look at her she's burning, glaring directly into me, and I think of us fighting like this without a table between us. Sparring in the bedroom maybe. Maybe she'd still be arguing with me while on her back, my hands opening her blouse. Still glaring at me, fighting over something we said at dinner.

"Mippy!" My mother is still here. She asks the elf for wine.

I watch her look at my mother, smile apologetically, and try to pick up her spoon again.

Oh, no you don't, Granger.

"Of course, getting down into the lower vaults required a bit of mischief if I remember correctly," I say, picking right back up. "The three seventeen-year-olds first used Unforgivables to pass through the first layers of security. So maybe it's not the dragon at all that failed."

Her eyes on me again, and I almost sigh. Mother tries to offer her wine and she declines.

"So, you're saying" – I see her crack a knuckle – "keep the maimed and tortured dragon downstairs, and beef up the upstairs security? That will solve the problem with the maim and torture."

I don't even know what we're talking about anymore. All I know is that she's not allowed to eat her soup, and she's not allowed to look away from me.

"Draco? Wine?"

"No, Mother." My eyes are focused in on her, and I feel the rest of my vision start to blur. "I'm just saying that the fault you find in the security is based on the ability to get past the dragon, but they would not have been able to get past the dragon without a bit of law-breaking upstairs." I pick up my spoon again, and smirk. "You might want to keep these arguments out of your presentation, Granger, else they decide to investigate further."

Mother is still talking about wine. I'm trying not to smirk. And Granger has abandoned her soup.

"Oh, thank you, Draco, but the Wizengamot already knows every detail of that situation," she hisses. I bring my spoon to my lips again, feeling perfectly content. "See, I'm perfectly capable of staying out of Azkaban all by myself, without the aid of a champion."

I freeze. Oh, you haughty little bitch.

I look up at her, ready with some kind of comment, and I see the heat leaving her eyes as she pulls her napkin off her lap, blushing across her face and chest.

I watch as she excuses herself, as she apologizes to my mother, as she looks mournfully at the soup.

Where are you going, Granger? We're just getting started.

She's standing and Mother is begging her to stay.

I imagine forcing her to stay. Tying her to her chair and taunting with that soup, pouring it down her throat while I make her moan with my other hand –

Mother is still talking and I blink. She's suggesting that I walk her out and I'd really prefer not to stand right now.

She scoffs. Says she'd rather get lost in the house than have me walk her.

I watch her as she ignores me, saying goodbye to my mother and fleeing the dining room. My heart is still thundering and the blood is still rushing downwards thinking of her angry face and her heated eyes and how much I'd like Mother to excuse us while I ravish her on top of the dining room table, soup spilling onto the tablecloth—

"Well, Draco," Mother whispers. "I hope you're happy."

It's supposed to be condescending. It's supposed to be sarcastic.

My lips lift. It the first time in two weeks that I've felt anything other than cold.

"Indescribably." I laugh. I stand, moving to leave.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm showing our guest out," I say innocently. Mother rolls her eyes at me.

Mippy appears, looking nervous, saying, "Miss forgot her books!" I take them and head toward the fireplaces. The books are monstrously heavy, so I cast a feather-light charm. I'm approaching the entry hall when I hear a whispered "Accio Floo powder!"

I smirk, and she hears me coming. She crosses her arms over her chest and I keep my eyes on her face. She's still glaring, so when I hand her the books I lift the weightless charm, and her eyes darken when she's done fumbling her books.

She's heaving in air through her nose, pressing her lips together and her chest is moving against the books. I flick my wrist and the Floo powder appears. She rolls her eyes and tries to reach for it. I pull it away.

I consider lifting it above our heads, watching her jump for it. Maybe she'll drop the books and press against me, grabbing my shoulders.

"Mother's quite upset, you know," I say. "After the scene you've made, I hope this is your last visit to Malfoy Manor."

She glares daggers into me, and I see the light in her eyes again.

"Oh, fuck off, Draco."

She grabs the Floo powder, and disappears.

I don't know what's gotten me harder: the obscenity, or the third "Draco" from her lips in one night.

I'm still standing at the fireplaces. I should go back and apologize to Mother. Finish dinner with her. I head upstairs and close my bedroom door, and let myself think of Hermione Granger's thighs on either side of mine, my hands wound in her hair, her lips whispering "Draco" against my neck.

It's the first time I've let myself think of her in two weeks.