To Look a Gift Horse in the Mouth
2
It's weeks.
Weeks since the incident, as she refers to it in her head. Since the momentary, catastrophic lapse in judgment that brought her down to Malfoy's office. Occasionally, she finds herself lying awake at night, wondering what could've possibly happened had he agreed.
But then she wonders how she could've ever imagined he would in the first place, and it's usually enough to let her roll over and shut her eyes. It doesn't matter.
Enough time has passed, in fact, that she's well on her way to forgetting about the whole ordeal. Pretending it never happened. Almost.
That is — until the two of them are forced to share a lift.
Logically, the odds are against it. She works five levels up, and he's six levels down. Their routes should never overlap. So it would seem that the fates are against them, sending him to the Department of Mysteries on this Friday just as she's on her way to discuss a relocation with the Portkey Office.
She almost backs out of the lift when she notices him in the corner.
But that would be ridiculous. And cowardly.
And she'd be late to meet with Rhodes.
So she steels herself and manages to turn her back to him, cutting off his pointed stare. Fixes her eyes on the gold bars of the lift doors and does her best to focus only on whatever the gentleman next to her is muttering nervously to himself.
"—just temporary. It'll wear off. Of course it will. It has to. Of course it will. It's temporary. Just temporar—"
"Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes," the lift announces, and the man scampers off, taking her focus with him.
Now there's only one other person in the—
"Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures."
Blast, now she's gone too.
No. No, it's perfectly fine. There are only two more floors before the Portkey Office — well, that and a diagonal shift backwards, but that will take hardly any time at all. If she can just keep facing forward, she'll—
"Immobulus," says Malfoy in a calm, low voice.
The lift jerks to a halt, somewhere between floors, and Hermione feels her stomach lunge up into her throat.
For a moment, not a word is said — not a movement made. She blinks rapidly at the gold bars in front of her, one hand feeling for her wand just as Malfoy takes a step forward. Appears in her periphery, still looking straight ahead as she is.
"Did you…" she squeaks out, and god, what a pathetic sound. "Did you just…stop the lift?"
"Very astute of you, Granger," he drawls, and she has to stop her gaze from jutting sideways to watch him twirl his wand between his fingers. "You'll be shocked to know that not all my spellwork is so…" Wordless magic flows towards her as he trails off — little flames dancing in midair, forming themselves delicately into a Chinese dragon. It dances around her, swirling counterclockwise past her waist, then around and across the backs of her thighs — eliciting a yelp she can't contain — just before it falls away to ash. "…unrefined," he finishes.
And she turns to look at the wall. Refuses to let him see the bright shade of scarlet strewn across her face. He's likely out to intimidate, but she thinks perhaps — in the darkest, most buried, forgotten recesses of her brain — that he may've achieved something else entirely. Which makes no sense. No logical sense at all. And it's purely situational. Has to be. A result of her nerves and the heat trapped inside the lift and possibly sleep deprivation. Yes, that's all it is.
Regardless, she's not about to let him see it on her face.
She needs out of this lift. Immediately.
"I'm late to a meeting, Malfoy. Is there something you'd like to say?" A pause. A silence. She feels the need to add, "Or do you often trap witches in lifts and try to set them on fire?"
Malfoy huffs out a laugh — has she ever heard him laugh like that before? — and he moves again, at last, to lean his back against the bars casually. "No, that's just for you, Granger. Special."
She can tell from his tone that it's not a compliment. Not friendly, by any means — but compounded on top of the situation, she finds herself looking even further towards the wall. So pointedly away from him that it's embarrassing and bordering on childish. She takes hold of one of the handles hanging from the ceiling, if only to give her fingers something to do other than fidget.
"What do you want, Malfoy?"
Another infuriating silence. She can tell even without looking that he's toying with her. Enjoying her discomfort.
"You're right," he says finally.
"About what?"
"Potter wouldn't have offered."
It catches her off guard, and she finds herself unable to keep her gaze away. Glances back, hoping against all hope that the flush has subsided and all he can see is confusion.
His posture against the bars is odd. Malfoy — always so stiff and pompous. So Pureblood. She used to wonder whether he had a broom shoved up somewhere to hold his spine so straight, the pointy git. Except now he's — lax. Every angle smoothed out, every muscle comfortable. Leaning with one foot propped back against a bar and one hand lazily tucked into a pocket. She glances away from his forearm, trying to convince herself she was looking for his Mark and not at the thin cords of muscle trailing up and disappearing beneath his sleeve.
But when she pulls her gaze away, it lands on his face. On calm, yet guarded eyes and a sharp jaw and that blindingly blond hair falling into his eyes. Longer now that it ever was at school.
She swallows. Holds his gaze and straightens her chin and manages. "No, he wouldn't have."
Malfoy nods once. Reaffirms. Then he juts up an eyebrow and murmurs, "But you did."
She grips the handle tighter. Waits.
"Why did you?"
Another swallow. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other to right herself. "Like I said. It's a lia—"
"Liability to the Ministry," he huffs and nods, almost another laugh. Scratches a spot on his neck with the tip of his wand and draws her eyes there. "Yeah, I remember." He flicks his wand, then, surprising her. "Finite."
The lift jerks back into motion, and thank god she's clutching the handle or she would've surely toppled over. They zip sideways and down, and all the while he keeps staring at her.
That is — until, the lift whips to a stop, jerking her forward and declaring, "Portkey Office."
The bars start to pull apart, and just as she moves to step past him — step out onto solid, sure, uncomplicated ground — he steps into her instead. Comes closer than he ever has, and it feels like the wind gets knocked out her.
"Sounds like a load of rubbish to me," he hisses into her ear, and the scent of his cologne clouds up around her nose. Fir and tobacco and what just might be the faintest tinge of whiskey—
He steps back. Returns to his corner in the lift and juts his chin up like nothing's happened.
"Off you go, Granger."
She staggers out and gulps down the fresh air. Refuses to move until she hears the lift pull away behind her, taking him with it.
Good god.
She summons Ginny for an "emergency pint."
It's the best she can manage. And while she doesn't disclose whatever unfounded and psychotic hormonal emotions wrecked their way through her inside that lift, she does admit that she's rowed herself into dark waters with Draco Malfoy.
Ginny, halfway through her third emergency pint — it seems to be a Weasley trait, the ability to knock them back — says casually, "It doesn't really surprise me."
"What doesn't?" Hermione's voice comes out far more desperate than she'd like. But she's two pints in and with no wooden leg to show for it.
Ginny jolts a fiery brow. "That he can't produce a Patronus."
"Oh, that? No — it does —" She hiccups. "Does surprise me." Another generous sip. "He was phenomenal at Charms. Narrowly overtook me, and I don't even think he studied."
Ginny not-so-subtly slides Hermione's pint out of reach. "Phenomenal, hmm?"
"At Charms," Hermione slurs. "An important distraction — distinction. Distinction."
"Right, we're closing the tab." And as she helps Hermione navigate the abruptly treacherous route out of the pub, she adds, "Here's the good news, alright? All you have to do is take the offer back."
And she's drunk, yes. But not too drunk to ruminate on that for the rest of the night.
Take it back. Take it back.
What if she doesn't want to take it back?
It is now violently clear that she's lost her mind.
Gone. Abandoned in that lift. Poof.
Because on Monday morning, after a near-sleepless weekend, she finds herself brushing important paperwork aside in favor of spreading out a clear sheet of parchment.
Malfoy, she scribbles. Perhaps you're right.
Her quill hesitates there for a good minute or two, dripping ink over and over onto the same spot — a black hole of punctuation. She can't think of anything else to say or how to phrase it. And so, sans-mind, she decides that's plenty and sends it off as is. Flicks her wand, watching the parchment fold itself into a paper airplane with all its permanency and all its consequences and then whisk off to find its target. Six levels down.
She drives herself mad thinking about it for the next few hours, fingers twirling the ends of her hair into frizzy chaos, teeth peeling the skin off her bottom lip. She realized only moments after she sent it that she hadn't signed her name. What if he doesn't know who wrote it? What if he doesn't understand?
But then, with five minutes left until her lunch break, a piece of parchment comes whizzing into her office and nearly strikes her in the nose. She pulls it from the air with more vigor than she'd care to admit, flattening it out and finding only one word. Written in spindly, crooked letters that seem all at once ghastly and all at once entirely Malfoy.
Oh?
That's it. That's all he gives her. Written beneath her previous note, with its gash of ink and the pathetic, hopeful upturn of her own handwriting.
Bastard.
However, one thing is clear. He does know it's her.
She doubts he'd send such a vague and altogether cheeky one-liner to anyone else at the Ministry. As far as she's heard, he takes his position here quite seriously.
And yet, her he treats differently.
"That's just for you, Granger," his voice echoes in her head. "Special."
Remembering the words sends an unconscious shiver through her, and she means to ignore it. He'd meant special in the tormenting sense. In the ideal target sense.
He had.
Nevertheless, she finds herself scratching out another curt sentence to send his way.
I'll admit I'm…curious.
This time, his response comes within an alarming fifteen minutes.
Use your words, Granger, it demands, and she blows a hot breath out through her nose, glaring at his hideous handwriting. Fine. He wants to play it that way? She'll be blunt. Blunt as blunt force trauma, thanks ever so.
I'm curious why you can't manage it. I'm curious why a boy — so outspoken about his magical talents — who never resisted the chance to show them off, mind you — would find such a crucial spell so uncooperative.
She has no qualms sending it to him. Feels more comfortable, in fact, with this one than the others. It's like sitting in a familiar chair — reverting back to their old ways. Bickering. Taunting.
It's nice to be on the taunting end.
That all? comes flying back to her, inked more darkly than the other messages. She can practically hear his snarky tone barking it at her.
Well…if he's asking.
And perhaps I'm curious what form it will take.
It's starting to alarm her secretary Amelia — all these missives flying back and forth, each time with parchment more wrinkled and worn than the last. As Malfoy's latest comes careening through, Hermione catches her following it with wide eyes.
"Finalizing the details of a contract," Hermione calls out to her. Makes a show of rolling her own eyes. Amelia nods and forces a laugh.
And as soon as she turns away, Hermione tears into the parchment. She doesn't feel like dissecting her emotions in this moment. Doesn't want to think about why she might be so eager. Excited, even. But no, she's not thinking about it.
Always so arrogant, Granger. So sure of yourself, his scrawl jeers. What makes you think you could ever teach me well enough to see it?
She tries to ignore the way she audibly growls, forcing the corners of the parchment flat so she can scribble her reply. Her quill tears through the weakened material once or twice.
Oh, I could teach you, Malfoy. I'd wager it'd take me less than a day.
And perhaps she sends it back too fast. Perhaps he's stepped out for a meeting. Perhaps the letter's gotten mixed up with the hundreds upon hundreds of others flying around. Or perhaps he's ignoring her. But his reply doesn't come for hours.
She's almost finished packing up her things to leave for the night, trying not to think about it. Trying even harder not to feel disappointed, because that — well, that's simply ridiculous.
But just as she's making to step across the threshold, his response really does hit her square in the nose.
And Hermione thanks the heavens Amelia's already gone, because no one needs to witness the way she tears the wrinkled thing open.
Something nervous and jittery flutters in her stomach as she stares at his words — something she doesn't fully understand.
Prove it.
Her eyes pass over the dark scrawl once, twice — a third time, trying to somehow wrench his intentions free of the ink.
She runs a hand through her hair, already mussed and tangled from dealing with her nervous fingers all day. Is he serious? Or is he teasing? Calling her bluff, perhaps? He can't possibly—
Her eyes stutter on the corner of the page where it's wrinkled and bent, and she can see he's written something on the back as well.
She flips it over so fast the bottom half tears clean off.
Yes, he's written. I mean it.
Her breath makes a shaky, nervous exit from her throat. There's no time or location, which means she can only assume he's saying now. Right now.
And she…
Well —
Shit, she thinks.
Now it's a cock-up.
She knocks twice. Quietly.
Because she's sure, without a doubt now, that this is the worst idea she's ever had. Just as sure as she is that, any minute, her heart might thud its way right out of her chest and flop wetly onto the floor outside Malfoy's office.
Which — at least he'd have to clean up the mess.
"I'm guessing you're still not Felix?" he calls dryly. And damn him for somehow finding this whole situation in any way amusing.
"No," she croaks. Of course it's a croak. Not the sure-of-herself, strong-willed, womanly voice she ought to have. No, of course not.
This time, Malfoy opens the door himself. Again, the scent of his cologne assaults her, washing up in a great swathe after being trapped inside the office with him.
"Good," he says curtly, eyeing her up and down. "I don't much care for Felix."
And what is that supposed to mean?
She blinks at him. He's wearing all black today. She's not sure why she notices.
"Going to stand there and gawk all evening?" he drawls.
"Unless you get out of the way." Banter, at the very least, seems to operate automatically when he's around. And thank god for that, because the rest of her's hardly operating at all.
"Please?" he mocks.
She scoffs and forces herself to duck under his arm, striding into his office with what she hopes is a manner of easy nonchalance.
Her eyes linger on his desk as she hears him shut the door, finding a small portrait of Narcissa and little else personal. Just piles and piles of parchment. His quills. A packet of mints.
And one oddly dainty looking teacup she didn't notice before. One that doesn't fit in with the rest.
It's white porcelain, with little gold and pink swirls painted onto it, sitting on a matching saucer. And it's so disarming to find a thing like that on Malfoy's desk that she reaches for it subconsciously.
The smack of his hand shackling her wrist is audible. It practically echoes, and her wrist stings where his skin makes contact.
She sucks in a sharp breath, yanking against him instinctively.
Malfoy lets her go just as quickly, taking two steps to block her view of the desk. She stares at him, wide-eyed, tucking her arm behind her where she can feel the red imprint of his hand blossoming.
"What is wrong wit—"
"Don't touch things that aren't yours."
She's surprised by the sharpness in his voice. Tries to mask her shock with a snort and a look of disdain. "A teacup, Malfoy? Really?"
"Least of all, that."
She huffs, trying to regain an air of casualness and plopping down into that stiff chair. "Rich boys and their things," she sneers, crossing one leg over the other.
Slowly, the hardness melts from Malfoy's expression, leaving that sarcastic mask in its place. "Oh, I do love my things, Granger. Make no mistake." He holds her gaze for a long moment. Long enough to truly unsettle her. Then he steps to the side, giving her a view of the teacup again. "But this is one thing I love that even I won't touch."
A spike of treacherous curiosity rears in her chest as he moves to sit behind his desk. "Why?"
Malfoy's words are light. Blasé. "Because it killed the first three people who tried." He leans back in his chair and crosses his own leg, ankle on his knee.
Her brows jolt up. "It's cursed?"
His gaze is calculating. He waits a moment before he nods. "The only one I've been unable to break."
Then why the bloody hell would he keep it on his desk, the psychotic bastard—
"And also my favorite," he adds, thin lips quirking up on the side.
She shifts where she sits, because his tone is odd. Dark. Complicated. "Why?" she asks again, softer now.
Malfoy's gaze seems to sharpen by the second. Piercing through her own eyes and digging deeper still, like he's trying to see through her head and out the other side. "I like things I don't understand."
She allows herself to stare back only a moment longer, before she feels she might actually lose something in the process. And what, she's not sure. She tears her gaze away and glances down at her stockings.
Of course he's a Curse-Breaker, then. An occupation full of mysterious, nonsensical things.
It takes an absurd amount of effort to draw her focus back to the matter at hand, but somehow she manages to clear her throat and say, "Well, then you'll enjoy this lesson. A Patronus is a complex thing."
"Oh, I understand the Patronus, Granger." He leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "I just can't produce one. Be a shame if you came all the way down here hoping to lecture me to death. One Flitwick was enough."
She bristles. Sits up a little straighter in that god-awful, uncomfortable chair. "Hands-on is the only way to teach the charm. Rest assured, you'll be hearing very little lecturing out of me."
He leans further forward. "Promise?"
Her eyes tighten. She shoves herself to her feet and pulls out her wand. "If you promise not to be a prick."
Malfoy makes a show of leaning back, as though the word itself has blown a gust of wind at him. "My, my. The Golden Girl has a filthy mouth. Who knew?"
She gathers her free hand into a fist. At the very least, this is the Malfoy she remembers. "I'll leave," she threatens. "Don't push it."
Malfoy sighs as though she's ruined his fun and follows suit, getting to his feet. He stalks around the desk to her, and it takes all she has not to take a step back when he comes a little too close.
"I promise not to be a prick," he murmurs, and the way his lips form around the word — like he's savoring it — makes her shoulders bunch up. Makes her shiver.
She tries valiantly to hide it. Gives herself a shake and turns away, putting distance between them. She adopts a neutral tone. "Good. Then that's settled. I'll take this seriously if you do, Malfoy. Take out your wand."
His brow is quirked when she turns back, but he does as she asks. "What's your plan, then? Going to put a Dementor on loan for the evening?"
She opens her mouth to retort. Shuts it. Glances away and then back at him. "Do you know, that's not a half-bad idea. May I borrow a quill?"
"Granger, I wasn't seri—"
"I am. Perfectly. A quill and parchment please." She holds out her hand expectantly, and now, at least, she feels more in her element.
Malfoy looks on with a note of disapproval as she writes our her request to the Beast, Being and Spirit Division. It's hardly the strangest thing she's asked for, and she feels confident they'll send one down within the hour.
After all — it's one thing to produce a Patronus in the comfort of one's home. It's another entirely to produce it when it's necessary.
If she's going to do this, she's going to do it properly.
Malfoy huffs under his breath as she sends the missive off. "Of course you have the clearance to actually rent a Dementor."
She ignores him. Retakes her spot at the other end of his office, taking a seat on the small bench where she intends to observe. "Right. We'll start off slow."
And slow it is.
Malfoy seems to lose a great deal of his suave sarcasm in the face of a rather defeating thirty minutes. And Hermione does her best to keep her expression blank as she calls out, "Again," over and over, watching him curse and growl under his breath as he sends out puff after useless puff of blue from the tip of his wand.
"Alright, that's enough," she says when it looks like he's getting too frustrated. "Take a rest." And she conjures him a cup of tea.
Malfoy drops into that uncomfortable chair, sipping at it and then wrinkling his nose. "This isn't how I take it."
"Then fix it yourself. You can do some charms, can't you?"
His glare is icy, and after a moment she averts her gaze.
"Anyhow, I just wanted to get a sense of what level you were at. Our starting point."
"Is there a Level Zero?"
She quirks a brow. It's odd to hear him demean himself. "Level Zero would be no response at all. Half the battle is producing the essence of a Patronus in the first place. Those blue wisps you see. You may not believe it, but you're halfway there."
Malfoy glances at her for a moment. Opens his mouth to say something, but there's a knock at the door in the same instant.
"Ah." Hermione stands from the bench. "That'll be our Dementor."
She says it with an air of humor, but from the way Malfoy's face drains of what little color it can manage, he doesn't find this funny at all. She watches him curiously for a moment before getting the door.
They've packaged the creature with care, no questions asked. It floats in, surrounded by a pre-existing Patronus that looks to have been charmed to last. The Patronus isn't corporeal. That would take too much effort. No — just a simple blue, wispy bubble surrounding the wraith in its torn, black cloak.
One look at Malfoy's face as it enters, and she feels the need to say, "Relax."
His eyes flit to her, no sign of the usual Malfoy in them. Just fear. Plain and simple.
"Breathe," she says, coming to stand in front of the Dementor to obscure his view. "We're not going to start off with it." A pause. She adds, "I wouldn't do that. Not until you're ready."
He breathes heavily. Can't tear his eyes away, staring past her shoulder. "What if I'm never ready?"
She takes a step forward, fully blocking his view, and his eyes find hers reluctantly. "You will be."
Then she turns and casts a Glamour, erasing the Dementor from sight completely. Malfoy's shoulders slump a little, but the tension doesn't fully dissipate. He still knows it's there.
"Focus on me," she says, and he drags his eyes to her. It brings an odd flush to her cheeks when she realizes she's asking Malfoy to look at her. A concept. "I'm assuming you know to think of a happy memory."
He scoffs. Relaxes a bit further. "I'm not daft."
She folds her arms and gazes at him expectantly. "Well, then. What do you think of?"
Malfoy hesitates. "That's personal."
She just juts out a hip and arches her eyebrow.
"What, Granger? I'm not about to just welcome you into my private thoughts, alright?"
"Do you want to learn?"
"Of course I want to learn."
It would seem even he's surprised by the vigor of his words. He runs a hand through his hair, disheveling it. Wrenches up his sleeves, apparently unaware that he's also baring his Mark.
She tries not to look at it.
He sighs into his hand as he pinches the bridge of his nose. "Is it too much to ask that I not be…taken advantage of in the process?"
She makes a strange, indignant sound. "You think I'm taking advantage of you?"
"I — no — or, well. I just — " Bloody hell, he's really struggling. His eyes flit around aimlessly for a moment before fixing on her. "I just don't really care to bare my soul here, Granger."
She stares at him. Thinks on it for a moment and chooses her next words carefully.
"When Professor Lupin taught it to Harry," she says, unfolding her arms and doing her best not to linger on the thought of Remus, "I remember Harry told me that 'happy' isn't always so straightforward."
Malfoy drops his hand away from his face.
"He said his first several attempts failed because he was trying to think of pure happiness. Pure exhilaration. In its simplest form." She takes out her wand. Holds it aloft. "But a Patronus is anything but simple. And sometimes happiness isn't what it takes. Let me show you something."
There's really no need to ask. Malfoy's eyes are fixed on her — seem to be in no danger of deviating.
"A Patronus takes a lot out of you. There are varying levels of strength needed to produce them. When it's one Dementor— when the threat is small enough — I think of the day I got my Hogwarts letter. It's my strongest happy memory, and with it I can manage this." She gathers a steady breath and says, "Expecto Patronum," softly and clearly.
Just as always, constant and unfailing, her otter swims out from the tip of her wand and Malfoy's eyes dart around to follow it. It seems curious about his presence. Swims little circles around his legs and torso before she lets it fade away.
"A steady corporeal form," she says. Doesn't fail to notice the way Malfoy already looks defeated. Doubtful. "But," she tacks on quickly, "it took me weeks to manage it with only that memory in mind. Like Harry, I thought happiness meant happiness and nothing more." And she steels herself in order to take a confident step toward him. "I ask about your memory, Malfoy, because I think you may have the same problem. Because when I think of a different one, I get this, instead."
She closes her eyes. Channels all of her focus into the one memory she rarely has to dredge up, the words of the charm falling instinctively from her lips.
Her Patronus bursts free of her wand with such earnest it jolts her back a step, and it's Malfoy's gasp that makes her open her eyes.
"It's not…" he blurts out and trails off, staring wide-eyed.
"Not an otter, no." And she watches with him, tracking the wispy form of the mountain lion as it prowls around the room, eyes predatory. Hunting. It finds the Glamoured Dementor almost immediately, growling and pulling its lips back over its teeth.
She lets it fade.
"I don't understand," Malfoy says quietly, staring where it used to be.
"I didn't either, for a long time. The books don't talk about it." And she feels the sudden, strange urge to admit something to him. "I've learned not everything there is to know can be found in books."
Something flashes behind Malfoy's eyes. She isn't sure what.
"Suffice it to say, I have to access a different side of myself to do what I just did."
The next strange urge is stronger, and she finds herself taking two steps toward him — getting in his space, as he did hers.
"Am I correct, Malfoy, in assuming that you have no happy memory to feed off of?"
His eyes become guarded so quickly it's almost shocking.
But she's also somehow prepared for this. Expecting this. And when he sneers and starts to say, "You don't know anything—" she cuts him off.
"You're repressing something."
His eyes narrow to slits.
"You've found a powerful memory, perhaps purely by instinct." She becomes even more sure of the words as they flow out. "But you're not allowing yourself to accept that it's what you need to feed off." Another step toward him. "You're afraid of it. Ashamed of—"
He gets in her face so fast it's like a cobra striking its prey. "Fuck you, Granger," he snarls. "Fuck you and your little conjectures. All of them." He's baring his teeth in her face and jabbing a cold finger into her collarbone. "You don't know the first thing about me."
It takes every spare ounce of will to take one more step into him, putting their bodies flush against each other. "Nor you me," she hisses.
They're so close, his hot breath is blasting up against her face — his furious panting chest touching her own with every inhale. She thinks if she blinks, her eyelashes will brush against his chin.
But that's just it. She can't blink. Not for the life of her. Not with the way he's looking at her.
There's fury there, absolutely. But also something else she's both terrified and helpless to seek out. A flicker. A hint of something heated and nervous and altogether intoxicating.
This is Malfoy, a warning in her head screams. Look at you. What are you doing? This is Malfoy.
And it is.
It's Malfoy.
Malfoy who's suddenly leaning in. Malfoy who's tilting his chin down. Malfoy slotting his nose ever so carefully against hers, as though one wrong movement will shatter the both of them.
And it's also her. Her who's tilting up. Her who's lifting onto her toes. Her who brings their lips together — and even as she does, a part of her knows he'll never ever let her forget it.
He makes a noise against her mouth the moment it touches his. Something repressed and painful and entirely too taxing on her own capacity for balance. She pitches forward into him, somehow surprised when he catches her weight. Gathers her up against him, opening his lips against hers and sealing them hungrily over what flesh he can find. Her tongue. Her lips. Her fucking teeth.
It's a devouring.
And she can do nothing but stand there and let him do it. Help him do it.
Her hands fist in his shirt just as his fist in her curls, knotting tight enough to be painful. Enough to make her eyes water.
Why does she wish he'd do it harder?
She bites down on his lower lip, because he tastes like sweet rum and bitters and it's heady — maddening — and it must flip some kind of switch. Malfoy releases her hair and goes for her hips, dragging her so tightly against him it's like he means to crush her. He wrenches his mouth free of hers and buries his face in her neck. Tongues and bites and laps at the column of her throat, dragging his teeth down the length of it when she makes a sound he seems to like, and —
What…
What is she doing?
What are they doing?
What is —
She panics. Rips herself away, almost too conscious of the way his fingers trail desperately at the hem of her skirt — try to pull her back.
She does the only thing she can think of.
"Finite," she gasps out, flicking her wand towards the Glamour and the Dementor itself and then staggering out of the way.
The Dementor reappears just as the Patronus around it falls, leaving nothing in its path to Malfoy. Malfoy, who — hair tousled and lips swollen and shirt pulled astray — seems almost too slow to pick up on what's happening.
But then the chill fills the room, the dread leeching its way through Hermione's skin — crushing the flaming desire of moments ago into nothing and leaving dust in its wake.
Malfoy's eyes widen with panic, and his hand is shaking when it finds his wand.
The Dementor senses his warmth. Senses the passion even as it fades from his eyes. It lunges for Malfoy like he's a beacon in the dark.
"Expecto Patronum!"
Hermione feels the hair stand up on the back of her neck, because — she knew. She knew.
Bright, blue light bursts forth from Malfoy's wand, exploding out in front of him until she can no longer see his face. And she's hoping for a shield form. Nothing more. But —
A swan. More broad and graceful than any she's seen in real life.
The great bird spreads its wings. Beats them in calm, graceful pulses until the Dementor recoils beneath its light. And she just manages to get her thoughts straight in time to reset the bubble charm, trapping the creature at its weakest.
The swan takes off into the air and explodes into nothing, little wisps of blue falling in its absence. Leaving the office dark.
It seems to take both of them a good minute to take a breath.
Malfoy stands at his desk, unmoving. Wand arm lax at his side.
She forces herself to stand, even feeling her knees start to wobble the moment she puts weight on them. She can't think of a single word to say. Can't think of how to respond to that, or — or worse still, before that.
All she knows is she needs to leave.
She makes a beeline for the door. Sways on her feet as she casts a charm to make the Dementor follow her out, but Malfoy speaks before she can escape.
"You swore," he says quietly. And he's looking at the ground when she manages to turn to him, his gaze wide and glassy. Unfocused. "You swore you wouldn't do it until I was ready."
She swallows thickly, hand trembling on the doorknob. Swallows back the guilt because — no, she refuses to feel guilty. Not when she was so sure. Not when she was right.
In a breathless voice that sounds nothing like her own, she manages, "Somehow, I knew you were."
The Dementor follows her out.