For the first ten or so minutes, Hermione Granger has a great time. She sits in the centre of the pitch and listens to the breeze while she reads through Advanced Potion-Making for the twelfth time. Occasionally, she looks up and sees Malfoy high above her head, perfectly content as he sits astride his broom. Sometimes she sees him while he's mid-dive, or just as he's shooting back towards the clear sky. Other times, he's just sat there, perfectly still, leaned back on the stirrups. It's those moments that make Hermione's heart pound and soar at the same time.
He just looks so calm, in those moments. When he's adjusting his gloves or running his hands through his hair, the broom unmoving underneath him, it's a tiny piece of Malfoy she never gets to see. The way he closes his eyes and tilts his face towards the sun with the slightest ghost of a smile on his lips; the way he grins over the stands and squints in the sunlight as he rolls his sleeves up (she can see the bandage from where she sits); the way he mutters to himself when he isn't diving fast enough. Teeny tiny little things that come together in making him. The dreamer, the teenager, the perfectionist – Malfoy.
After fifteen minutes, she gets rather bored. While Advanced Potion-Making is a brilliant book – well worth the rereads – Hermione finds herself beginning to fidget. Her mind wanders as she stares at the pages she's read before, the words not seeming to make sense as she gets frustrated with herself for reading the same paragraph – the same sentence – multiple times. More and more often she leans backwards to watch him, not just a glance, but actually watching. He doesn't notice her, at first. He's in his own little world, and Hermione doesn't want to break that little bubble of his. Eventually, he does notice, but he doesn't let her know that. Instead, he does what he does best: annoys her until she shouts at him.
Waiting until she's turned, annoyedly, back to her book, he dives, silently pulling up when he's about three feet above her head. With a quick swing, he flings his left leg over the handle of the broom and – gripping the broom with the backs of his knees – lets himself drop. She lets out a yelp as he appears in front of her, misjudging it and nearly headbutting her, making him begin manically laughing as he tries to steady himself.
"Alright, Granger?" He grins once he gets his laughter under control. She scowls in response and stands, hitting for his shoulder, but he pulls himself up and out of her reach. He drops down again once she stops, still grinning.
"Prat," she mutters, sneering at him. "Stop doing that, you look like you're going to fall."
"If you keep hitting for me, then I will. Will you be sorry then?"
"Depends," she sniffs. "If it'll make you stop trying to get under my skin."
"Why would I stop," he huffs theatrically, the smirk still present in his eyes. "When it's just so much fun?"
"Because you know it scares me."
"Does it really, Granger? I suppose the reason you've been staring at me is because you're hopelessly in love with me, then."
"I am not."
"Oh, come on, Granger. We both know it's not the broom you're scared of riding."
She gapes at him with wide eyes. "Malfoy!" He starts laughing hysterically again – he can't help it, the redness on her cheeks is too funny to ignore. "Don't say such vulgar things!"
"If they're true, why shouldn't I?"
"It's not true!" She practically shrieks, pressing the palms of her hands against her cheeks to try and hide the creeping glow of scarlet. Malfoy pulls himself back onto the broom before lowering himself to the ground, hopping off gracefully.
"I always forget how short you are," he quips, smiling at her playfully as he props the end of the Nimbus' handle under his chin.
"I'm not short – you're just too tall," she snaps back, glaring up at him.
"Just stop being stubborn and admit that you're bored."
"No."
"Fine, then I guess I'll just leave you here on your own with -" He squints at the spine of the book she's clutching in her hands. "Advanced Potion-Making. If that's what you really want."
"It's a fascinating read."
"Sure it is."
She scowls, dropping back to where she sat cross legged on the floor. He doesn't miss the way she fidgets as he slowly mounts the Nimbus, the huff she gives when she opens the book to a random page. He smirks as a frown causes the space between her brows to crease, her right cheek pushed up by the palm of her hand as she rests on it. With a slight chuckle, he dismounts, striding over to her and grabbing her by the wrist, pulling her up to her feet. Another yelp escapes her as she stumbles.
"Go put the jumper on."
She rolls her eyes, but picks the jumper up anyway. "What about my skirt? And my shoes?"
"Why do they matter?"
"Well, why does it matter whether I'm in my shirt or this jumper, then?" She huffs, blowing a stray strand of hair from in front of here eyes. He reaches out and pushes it behind her ear and she stiffens. Had he really just done that? It wasn't much, but it was enough to make her knees feel weak.
"Have you ever tried riding a broom in a stiff shirt? It's terribly uncomfortable. Plus the jumper is warmer." He doesn't seem phased by the thing. Why would he? He probably does it with every girl he interacts with, and it hurts Hermione's heart to think about that.
"Fine. Fine!" She drops her copy of Advanced Potion-Making onto the grass – for a second, at least, before she shoves it into her bag. "If I'm traumatised – if I fall – I am never speaking to you again."
"You can threaten all you want, but you and I both know that you won't last twelve minutes without talking to me," he smirks, his hair flopping about as he tilts his head. She wants to reach out and brush it out of the way, like he did for her, but she knows that her doing it will be a much more intimate gesture than his was.
She rolls her eyes, unwilling to admit it. But he's right; she wouldn't be able to go back to hating him – not as easily as she pretends she's able to. To think they've only interacted for a week is insane. To think she's invited him to her house – somewhere Ron and Harry have never been – is shocking. To think that this boy occupies more of her mind than her two best friends is baffling. To think that she could fall for him so hard, knowing who he is – who he was – and still believing that he is able to save is unimaginable.
Yet here we are.
She huffs once more, before turning and going into the changing rooms. There's no use arguing with him: he's just as stubborn as she is. She just isn't sure whether or not that's a good thing.
She quickly changes, her fingers numb with the cold as she undoes the buttons to her shirt. She neatly folds them, placing them beside Malfoy's bag on the bench. Her robe is hung on a peg above her, and she makes sure it falls in exactly the right way so it doesn't crease. The jumper is miles too big for her – no surprise, really – and when she pulls it on, she brings the collar of it up to her nose so she can smell it (and she knows she looks like a weirdo). It smells of him, and it makes her mind swirl in a haze of French cologne and green apples.
It's Hermione's favourite smell.
The jumper comes to her mid-thigh, which is halfway down her skirt, and so she looks quite odd as she walks out of the changing rooms. She's not sure whether she wants to tuck it in or not, but just as she's decided to Malfoy turns, so she just has to deal with it. Luckily the sleeves are long enough for her to pull over her hands.
He grins when he sees her. "Gee, Granger, you could've told me you looked good in green. I would've asked you to wear it more often."
She smirks and rolls her eyes, before remembering the last conversation they had had about the colour green. "Since we're both wearing green now, Malfoy, who do you think looks better?"
His eyes travel from the top of her head down to her shoes, then back up, and he pouts as he thinks. She can see the glimmer in his eyes, the slight tinge on his cheeks. He opens his mouth, hesitates, then finally speaks. "Well, you do look stunning in green, Granger. But we have to agree that I am unmatched. I mean, look at me." He does a little spin, before looking at her with a raised brow, and Hermione laughs.
"Of course you're this self-centred."
"You can't deny I look like a king in this colour."
"I never said you didn't, did I?"
"Oh, so you admit it?" He smirks, and she frowns.
"Admit what?"
"That you think I'm absolutely drop-dead gorgeous and you're head-over-heels in love with me."
"I never said that, I said you were self-centred despite you looking good in green. It wouldn't have killed you to compliment someone other than yourself for once, Malfoy."
He makes a psh noise. "I compliment you all the time – I complimented you twenty minutes ago!" He scowls at her and she smiles sweetly back at him. "Fine, you win. Miss Hermione Granger you look like a queen in that colour. It makes you look like a million galleons. It makes you look perfect – more perfect than usual."
"Thank you, Mister Draco Malfoy, that's very sweet," she murmurs, her voice low, suddenly shy. "But you're wrong, you do look the best out of the both of us."
He holds his hands up, a small smile creeping across his face. "Lets just agree that we both look the best, and leave it there." He holds his hand out for the Nimbus, silent as it shoots upwards into his open palm. He swings his leg over it, then looks at her. "Get on then."
She begins to mount the broom behind him, but he stops her.
"No, Granger. In front."
"But I thought you normally rode on the back?"
"Normally, but you don't want to fall, and I don't want you to fall. If you sit in front of me I can cage you in. It's safer than trusting you to keep hold."
"You let go all the time!"
"I've been flying since I was little, I know how to keep my balance. You're scared, and the only way I can think of having you not panic is by me forcibly keeping you on the broom."
And so she mounts the broom with her back to his chest, suddenly hyper aware of where his arms come into contact with hers. She can feel his chin against the back of her head, and imagines him planting a calming kiss there.
"Scoot back a bit." She shuffles backwards towards him, stopping inches before her back touches him, and she hears him laugh.
"What's so funny?"
"Nothing, nothing," he chuckles, adjusting his grip on the sleek handle. He pushes off the ground, and soon they're hovering a foot above the grass. "So, you're going to lean forward slightly, so I'll be able to actually fly this thing."
She does what he says, leaning further forward. He leans, too, his chest coming into contact with her back. Despite there being two thick wool jumpers between them, a shiver courses down her spine. She begins thinking about him against her, like this. Coming up behind her to hug her, kissing her head. Spooning in bed as they fall asleep, his arms wrapped tightly around her, his face nuzzled into the crook of her neck. She thinks about his bare chest against her bare back – skin on skin – and her cheeks (like always) heat up. She's thankful that she's not facing him, for she is certain that he would ask her what she was thinking of, if only to embarrass her.
"You ready?" His voice snaps her out of her thoughts.
"I suppose," she mumbles, her legs dangling awkwardly – Malfoy's feet are against the stirrups, so there isn't really anywhere for her to position them comfortably. As they hover there, he reaches forward one foot at a time, wrapping his foot around her ankle and pulling her leg back. They share the stirrups, his feet on the outside, hers on the inside. She finds it a lot easier to relax and lean forwards with her legs not hanging limply beneath them.
"Here we go."
The broom rises slowly, and he circles the pitch slowly – much slower than he would if he was alone. Hermione can feel how tense his muscles are, how much faster he wants to go, and she silently thanks him for keeping a steady pace. He takes them off the pitch, over the stands, towards the lake, passing over it. They're low enough that she can see her reflection staring up at her with equally wide eyes. Tentatively, she lowers her hand and brushes it against the surface of the water, a grin beginning to form as her fingertips cause ripples throughout the lake.
He begins to pick up speed, turning away from the lake and towards the castle, so Hermione pulls her hand back quickly, grabbing back onto the handle. The cuff of her sleeve is a slightly darker green than the rest of it.
"You better not have gotten my jumper wet," he huffs comically.
She laughs, knowing full well he can see the damp patch on the sleeve.
They head to the owlery, picking up speed again – and she doesn't mind. She feels invincible, when she's with him, at least. If she was alone she would probably have a breakdown. He circles the owlery, then the Astronomy tower, making a figure of eight between the two, before climbing higher into the sky. They travel in the direction of the pitch, though she can't see it (if she looked down, that is. But she won't). It's actually okay – okay-er than she thought it would be.
"Are you alright with diving, Granger?" He asks, his voice low, his breath against her ear. She nods, swallowing, slightly afraid – but what is life without a bit of fear?
The broom flips, the world going upside down for two seconds, and he dives. They shoot towards the ground in a spiral, and Hermione gasps. Suddenly, everything is not okay as they plummet back towards the hard earth, and she screams, her legs and arms like lead. Her eyes screw shut as she waits for them to hit the ground.
The handle of the broom is yanked upwards and she feels them stop, not going up or down, backwards or forwards. They just stay still, in mid-air, high above the pitch. She doesn't open her eyes.
He shifts his weight slightly – she can feel the broom wobble – and she whimpers. She feels his left arm wrap around her waist, pulling her towards him tightly, holding her still against him as he leans backwards. She can feel each individual finger as they lay splayed, pressed against her right side. Her eyes open slowly, and the first thing she sees is how bright the sky is – this beautiful blue that spreads further than she can see. She sees his right hand, next, his gloved hand gripping the broom handle tightly as he holds it level. It is all for show; Malfoy knows how to keep a broom level, but he knows that she wouldn't appreciate him taking his hands off. His left hand being off is probably too much for her.
He rests his chin on top of her head, and when he feels she's calmed down enough, he begins dropping the Nimbus back down to the pitch – not a dive this time, just a slow, steady drift downwards.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he murmurs over and over as they creep towards the grass. She wants to shush him, tell him she's alright, that it's not his fault, but for some reason she can't open her mouth.
They reach the pitch, Malfoy helping her dismount. Her legs feel like jelly, wobbly beneath her, and she's sure she's going to collapse. Malfoy is too, which is why he is stood in front of her, his hands an iron grip around her forearms. When he's certain she isn't about to fall, he pulls her towards him in a hug, whispering again how he's sorry, how he didn't mean to scare her, how he should have thought first. When he's done, he pulls back slightly and presses a kiss against her forehead. He eyes flutter shut as she savours the moment, his arms around her, his lips soft against her skin.
When his lips leave her forehead, she wilts. "I hope that can make up for it," he quips, though she can tell his heart isn't in it. He really is worried that he frightened her.
"You owe me lunch," she replies with a smile, poking him in the chest with her finger. "Which should be any minute now."
He grins back – glad he hasn't traumatised her after all. "Lunch it is." He grabs his Nimbus and starts towards the changing rooms, stopping when he realises she isn't following. "What, you don't want lunch anymore? Come on, you need to get changed."
"I'm not getting changed with you in there!" She gasps, clutching her bag to her chest. "You get changed first then come out here."
He chuckles, shaking his head and turning away from her, shoving the changing room door open with his shoulder, muttering to himself with a smile.
"Ever the prude, Granger."