"I bet this could buy me a dozen chocolate frogs from Honeyduke's!"

With a bag of sickles in his hand, the elated Ron Weasley fancied himself the luckiest sixth-year in Hogwarts ground. In a rare fortuitous moment, he had, for the first time in his life, won a bet against someone else not biologically related to him by blood: Dean Thomas. Thanks to the Hufflepuffs for beating the Ravenclaws in the most recent game of quidditch, he now boasted 'resources' for conquests at the Hogsmede sweetshop.

Yes, to top it off, it was a Hogsmede weekend.

And at his sides on their walk to the village were no one else but his two best friends (one whose relation could possibly be more than platonic), Harry Potter and Hermione Granger.

"Seriously, mate," Ron chattered, powered in euphoria, "I could do so much with this."

Harry examined Ron, worriedly probing the youngest Weasley thoroughly for signs of over-excitement in the (predicted) extreme cases of obligatory life-saving levitation up to the dorms.

If Hermione wasn't around…

"Erm, yeah," he muttered montonously, hands tucked in his jeans pocket, "Don't get too absorbed in mon—hey, Cho!"

Ron looked up from fumbling with his 'money bag.' The end of Harry's sentence was doubtlessly directed, diverted from the redhead, at the Boy-Who-Lived's on-and-off Asian, Ravenclaw girlfriend, Cho Chang, who stepped in gailey to join their group.

"Hi, Harry," she greeted him, placing her hands in his, a move which brightened Harry's face as if his birthday had arrived early but which sickened Ron to the core.

The nerve of some girls…interrupting a friendly, productive conversation…

He went back to his business, not before sending a silent whisper to Harry, gesturing ostensibly at Cho. "And you don't get too much absorbed in girls, either!"

Harry rewarded Ron's simpatico, like-wise warning with a sheepish grin, as he slid an arm across Cho's shoulders.

"Huh, friends of mine, either are absorbed with money or girls," Hermione pondered loudly, (Harry giving her the universal sign of 'shush') in a mock sigh, breaking her silence for the first time that morning.

Ron spun on her. ""What about you, 'Mione? What are you absorbed in?"

The Gryffindor bookworm unconsciously felt blood rushed to her cheeks at Ron's retorting questions, at the thought of associating the word 'absorbed,' with a certain Slytherin, with him.

Absorbed?

Obsessed. Craved. Enthralled.

More like.

"Well?" the redhead was juggling his bag from one hand to the other while walking, "Hermione?"

Her eyes darted from his inquisitive hazel to Harry's green. "Nothing you need to know about," she finally uttered under her breath.

Ron shrugged, disinterested, "Your precious textbooks, maybe."

Rather than bothering herself with Ron's frequent, petty, nobody-takes-me-seriously issues, Hermione caught Harry's eyes the second time, winking their furtive signal.

Harry returned the wink, slipping the item Hermione inquired to borrow two days prior to the trip to her awaiting hand behind his back.

Her hand grabbed onto the soft, silky material. "Thanks," she mouthed, covering herself in the cloak of invisibility and stealthily trudged away to her destination.

Ron, meanwhile, was too busy deciding between Hogsmede shops to notice the disappearance of his best girl friend. When he had realized Hermione remained abnormally silent to his quirky comments (instead of springing into her regular lively, 'enlightened,' lectures or comebacks), Harry was shrugging before his eyes, lips forming the words, "I don't know."

"She's gone?" he asked, surprised, "And is that—"

"My bag is opened, yes," Harry said, still hand-in-hand with Cho.

The knowledge dawning on him, Ron exclaimed, "No. Effing. Way. You let her borrow the Cloak?"

It was a secret known exclusively in the Golden Trio's circle that Harry would bring with him the Cloak every Hogsmede trip, provided that some events needed further investigations into (or perhaps for cases of apparent wishes to disappear off the face of the Earth—experiences exceptionally noted to happen to Ron on a maddening, periodic basis).

"What," Harry grinned, amused at Ron's gaping mouth.

"I trust her."


Oh, the irony.

If only he knew what I was using the cloak for, thought Hermione, smiling to herself when she had arrived at their meeting place.

For Merlin's sake, McGonnagall would never let them see the sunlight again had they been discovered here.

For she was standing in front of the Whomping Willow.


Oh, the dangers of going out with Hermione Granger, Draco mused.

He was, on a peculiar take of his better (of which conflicted with most negative views) traits, just standing there, punctually waiting for her at their meeting place.

Damn. He didn't know this girl. Didn't know her at all.

Who knew she loved little risks?

A date before the school's notorious body-crasher? Please. Even he wouldn't take the chance.

Every time he met her, it was getting to know her anew all over again.

He checked his watch—a gift from his Father for his sixteenth birthday.

Precisely ten o'clock. Where is she?

Traditionally it wasn't his role to be the worried widow. That's the girl's to fret about. Hermione's turning switches in his dating rules, his calendar, his love life as he familiarized himself with, and his senses.

He almost walked back to the dorms, in not-so-smug thoughts that it was her joke to simply stand him up, when his ears perked up at the sound of a lone wooden branch on the grass snapping.

Accompanied by a girl's voice, a very familiar individual Gryffindor's voice he had become accustomed to.

"Oops."

He spun around, scanning the deserted area for any signs of her.

Merlin's beard, he was alone, after all.

Then how on Earth would that branch snap at the same time as her cry?

Perhaps someone's playing a nasty trick on him. Behind that bush.

Wasn't this—reminiscent of three years ago when invisible forces 'attacked' his hunchmen in the snow?

Hold on. Invisible. Potter and his friends.

He traipsed blindly through the grass, calling her name. "Hermione! I know you're here, some wh—oof!"

An imperceptible force apparently blocked his way to continue, even grabbing onto his arm. And a voice whispered. "Hey, it's me."

He chuckled. "I'd kiss you, but I have no idea where your lips are, Hermione."

But she took his hand, leading him closer to the Whomping Willow. "C'mon, we'd better get inside."

Flinching slightly at her daring act, he allowed her control. With a swish of her wand (and a nonverbal spell), the tree's motion was suspended, safe for entry.

She pushed him into the blackness. "You first, I'll follow."

A split second later, he landed flat on his face on a cold, grimy dirt path.

He barely had time to utter, "Oof," when (what sounded like a) Hermione effortlessly entered.

"Welcome, officially, to Whomping Willow, Draco," she smiled, her outstretched hand hovering strangely in the air to help him stand up.

He brushed the dust off his sides, without another word.

Pushing, cajoling, chortling as they did so, the couple reached the end of the passage and the door leading to…

"The Shrieking Shack?" he said in wonder, hand yet attached to Hermione's. "But…?"

The 'force' giggled, wordlessly pulling him into the antiquated, tenantless room.

"Now what?" he teased, finding it bizarre his hands were roaming in the air aimlessly. "Where are your lips? Hm, are they here," Draco pretended to brush his at random spots before her invisible figure at each word, "here. Or here?"

As expected (and planned), Hermione instantly threw the cloak off in response, murmuring querulously—the way he'd preferred her voice, "Here, you idiot."

"Your idiot I'll remain," he gave her that signature smirk of his, before rightfully locating (and matching) her lips to his.

Engrossed in the kisses, they stumbled clumsily, stepping backwards closer to the ancient bed behind them.

When a rat inopportunely (or should he say opportunely, had he known what was to happen), scuttled past Hermione's shoes, provoking from her a small scream, a detachment from his lips, and (to Draco, the best reaction to a scuttling rat so far in history) a impromptu pounce on his unprepared body.

If anyone (ever) interrogated him on how his first lay on the bed atop Hermione Granger happened, Draco swore to confess in frankness that he did, in that split second her warm body collapsed onto his, try to catch her with all his might, but she (unfortunately) lost balance.

And afterward it could only make sense (leastwise, to him) that through a series of inescapable (and pleasurable) balancing actions, he found himself on top of her, their noses touching, his breaths tickling her neck beneath him.

"Well?" she said, her eyes twinkling, hand knotting his hair.

"Well," he repeated, kissing her lightly on the lips, "We could always continue."

She gave a small, muffled sound of contented satisfaction in her throat, as his skilled lips left hers in subtlety, progressing towards her jawline to her neck, sucking at particular spots that tensed her increasing ecstatic hold on his shoulders, blurring her, obfuscating his remaining sentient qualms.

While hers were loosening up his tie, his hands continued to map her writhing body, moving in synchronization with his lips, passed her cheeks on their way down her lissome form.

Arriving at her—

Slap.

"Ouch."

The motions, the short huffs, and her murmurs responsive to his kissing froze when he laid his hand on the back of her skirt.

To follow up his sudden cry, Draco hastily shook his sore hand, steadying his breathing.

"Hermione—"

"Don't you ever dare to get down there!" she said, her cheeks flushed. "Merlin's sake, Draco, I'm not your typical, get-her-laid-and-leave girlfriend."

"Hermione—"

"That's it," her grasp on him loosened. "I'm getting up. Get off me, you!"

Her fingers were jabbing on his chest, but he calmly caught them still, whispering, "Bloody hell, Hermione, would you give me a chance to explain myself? It was an accident," An intentional accident, "I'd go ahead with other girls but not you. Not you, okay? I know you're not like them. I know how far I—"

But before he could finish his sentence, Hermione's perpetuating attempts at getting up (without him) succeeded, promptly resulting in another roll.

The next thing he knew, his back was to the floor, and on top of him lay a chagrined, furiously blushing Hermione, taking in audible gulps of air.

They were off the bed—for good.

Ending a period of nervous stares, he held up his hands. "Not me. You. It's okay, Hermione, our minds are filthier than we think," winking at her oblivious pretense.

Oh, hell, is she cute when she's acting guilty?

Definitely.

She had her hands crossed at her chest, a gesture Draco knew meant to order him around.

"At your command, miss," he nodded his head to her unfolding smile.

"I'm, um, on top," he had to praise her for the exemplary efforts at hiding whatever remnants of her morification, "So it's only reasonable that you," she cocked an eyebrow at him, "Carry me up."

He pointed a finger at himself, playfully asking. "Me?"

"Like any gentle prince should do," she finished her sentence quickly, not looking at him in the eye.

He pretended to hesitate. "Oh okay, I suppose I could handle that," before enveloping her in his arms, helping her stand back up on the ground.

"Thank you," she said, so hurriedly he barely caught the end of her 'you.'

Draco entwined her hand in his, contemplating her chocolate eyes, "So, where to, next?"

Hermione cautiously stepped farther away from the bed. "Somewhere…without this creaky old bed. And fresh air."

Oh, he just happened to have the ideal locale in mind.

Fresh air. He thought, intrigued.

This was getting interesting.


Splash.

"Hey!"

Hermione glared at him in mock accusation, splattering water at him as an answer to his challenge.

"Oh yeah?"

Grinning, he sprinkled another 'bomb' on her face, watching her giggle in delight.

As Draco had suspected, the Lake area was deserted on Hogsmede weekends, save for the two maniacs sploshing water at each other's faces for the last five minutes.

Their clothes were dripping, soaked with water, but for once, Hermione did not care.

"You don't know what you're up against," she faux threatened, turning back to collect more water to her advantage, clueless of his advancing figure.

"Oh, no—oh, no, no, no, you're not—doing what I think you're trying to—wah!"

At her half-serious, half-joking pleading, he already had his hand on her back, and at the right moment, pushed her into the water.

She rose up from the water, spluttering, "Draco Malfoy, I am going to get you for this! I swear I—"

For he, laughing, had obligingly jumped in after her, spraying more water at her drenched face.

And placed his lips onto hers.

As if Stunned by a stupefy curse, Hermione 'forgot,' to continue threading water, the couple descending down into the depths of the Lake, surfacing again after a few blissful seconds, still lip-locked, still immersed in each other's arms.

Click. Shutter.

Flash!

They blinked rapidly at the blinding light, seconds ticking in their heads before arriving at the discernment of the event.

That they were just photographed.

That their kiss, their per-fervid embrace were recorded in moving, solid film for prints.

By none other than the presently fleeing covert of a fifth year Gryffindor, Colin Creevey.

Oh, shit.

A/N: A cliffy =).

Gotta Love Colin, don't ya. He just turns up at the right moments. (sneaky laughs)

Dedicated to my co-ideas finder of a marvelous friend, Asako (Bezelneef's Curses)--yes, I must drag you into the fandom, heh. (So much fun discussing the chapter with her. Ha. And her *smexy smooching in the shrieking shack* (yeah, we're high.). The "I want the dive and the kiss in the water" suggestion of hers. Hahaha.)

The writing's mine. The ideas are ours. (smiles)

Hope you like it.

Thanks to all the precious reviews and hits, love to everyone XD,

Your ever humble fanfic writer :)