A/N: This is the third bonus chapter I wrote, but second in chronology so far. I'm going to try to place it where it "should" go, and sorry if that gets confusing to find the new chapter!

"Draco, darling, how about you go to Diagon Alley for your mother?"

Narcissa Malfoy smiled at her son in that carefree way she used to when he was a child. He smiled back.

"Come with me," he said.

She shook her head.

"Please. You don't need to stay cooped up in this terrible house."

"Don't say that, Draco. It's a wonderful home. We just have to do some… redecorating."

"Purging of Dark Magic?"

She gave him a sharp look.

"Just go for me, son." She snapped her fingers, and a list short list materialized in her hand.

He accepted it and read through. "Mother, this list is nothing. Send an elf."

"Yet I've asked you to go." She sighed. "Draco, why do you argue? You could meet up with some of your friends, have a drink in a pub, and learn what it is to be young and unburdened. I want to see you living."

"And I want to see the same for you."

She sat down on the edge of the couch, the picture of grace and exhaustion. "Not yet."

There was a pause, and Draco waited patiently for his mother. Given enough time, she would explain.

"I can't be out in the world yet. Not while the decision for your father hangs over my head. Once his appeal is settled, whatever his— fate," she choked over that word, "then I can move forward."

Draco nodded. He rose and walked over to his mother, placing a hand on her shoulder. She covered it with her own.

"Okay, I'll go."

Her dazzling smile came back, then it turned into a smirk.

"Do write to one of your friends to join you. I trust you have a quill to use?"

Draco frowned. "Mother…" He meant it as a warning, but judging by the way her eyes lit up, he failed.

It was roughly midday when Draco exited the apothecary, having purchased a half-dozen vials of headache potion for his mother as well as two impulse packages of chizpurfle carapaces. He stowed them in his pocket with a smirk. That was his last stop for the day, having already found his mother a new quill (she really was an evil, conniving woman), one hundred yards of silver owl string, and ingredients for his own Christmas gift to her: a custom-brewed potion he had been formulating for a while. He had also replaced his damaged pair of dragonhide gloves. He smiled to himself at the memory of how they had been burned through in the first place.

It was in Double Potions, and Hermione had been stirring the cauldron with exacting precision. His job was adding ingredients, while she also marked off their progress.

"You know, it never really occurred to me that Professor Snape always wrote the instructions on the board instead of having us consult our books."

Draco had smirked at this.

"I put it together at the end of sixth year," she continued. "Kind of a long story, but I had always assumed this was normal until Slughorn. And after… well, that's a long story, but I started comparing my old notes from previous classes against the instructions in the books. The differences are small but so obvious now! I can see exactly why he was changing things. Fixing them really. I'm ashamed of myself for not realizing it sooner."

"Is this why you're adding in random counter-clockwise turns?"

She beamed at him. "You noticed!"

Gods, did no one pay full attention to her? What the fuck was wrong with her friends.

He kept his face blank as he nodded.

"Only, they're not random. I'm watching for the saturation point, and when the new ingredients are nearly at the point of full incorporation, I add in the counter-clockwise turn. You would think this would have the opposite effect, but it actually causes the new ingredient to fully incorporate into the brew!"

He had to fight back a smile. Had he always had such a thing for bookworms? Thinking back, he had always been fairly obsessed with this particular bookworm, but for the first few years it was because she outperformed him in every subject, no matter how much he studied. Sometime after fourth year, things changed. He was not proud to admit that it took seeing her on the arm of an international quidditch star to recognize his own jealousy, and in turn, his own attraction to her.

But everything changed that year. Voldemort returned, his father was forced back to the side of that fucking maniac, and one disaster after the next befell his family. There was no time to think about what that insane flip in his stomach when he looked at her meant.

But now, he had a plethora of time. And by some stroke of luck, she was right next to him, nearly all day long, treating him like he was with something. Dazzling him with her smile. Touching his shoulder or his arm like it was natural—normal. The teachers must have conspired for him, and they assigned Hermione to work with him in almost every class. For weeks now, he was so fucking close to her blazing light.

That was it.

That was what he could not turn away from. She was brilliant in every sense of the word. She never hid it. She used it all the time, and she never cared who she fucking outshone—which was everyone. Most of the time, she was ten steps ahead of him, putting together theories and working through them with blinding speed.

Just like she was right then. And for some nonsensical reason, she was pleased with him for noticing her rather than pleased with her own fucking self for being a goddess.

And he could not tear his eyes away from her.

The classroom was warm, but Hermione did not at all adjust her sleeves. Instead, she grabbed her hair into a haphazard bun and fastened it with a hair tie she produced from nowhere. It lasted for less than ten seconds, then snapped straight into his face.

If he had been looking at what he was doing, everything would have been fine. It would have bounced off the side of his head. Probably startled him, yes, but not snapped him in the fucking eyes. Instead, he was staring at her like a spellbound moron. He dropped the vial he was holding, fumbled, and caught it just in time for it to spill all over his gloves.

"Wingardium Leviosa!" Hermione shouted.

His gloves went flying straight off his hands and into the air before any of the acid touched his skin. Then, with a nonverbal wave of her wand, she vanished them.

Hermione turned to him and smirked. And Draco's brain turned to mush.

"Got something on your mind?" she asked with a raised eyebrow that affected him in ways he never wanted to admit.

"Er…" Very eloquent.

A wild curl fell in her face, and she frowned. Her eyes scanned the workbench, then the floor around them, then came to rest on his lap. She gasped.

A fear filled Draco like he had never before known. He would rather face the Dark Lo— Voldemort a hundred times than this situation. Please, Salazar, for all that is fucking good in this world, please say he had more control over his body than a fucking fourteen year old. To his absolute horror and excitement, Hermione reached out towards the exact part of his body he was desperately trying to ignore.

If he were not young and healthy, he would have died right then.

It was over before he realized it. Hermione had plucked something off of his knee, then held it aloft. Her broken hair tie. She groaned.

"I just bought these!" The frown she gave the elastic was spectacularly disappointed.

Suddenly, Draco could breathe again. Then, he started to laugh. Hermione stared at him in shock for a moment, then had joined in.

And so, a new pair of dragonhide gloves was wrapped in a smart little package and shoved into his pocket along with the carapace pouches.

Contrary to his mother's wishes, he did not invite any of his friends to join him in Diagon Alley. The only person he cared to meet up with here was definitely unavailable and surrounded by a brood of red-headed morons and one black-haired prat. So, Draco walked the street by himself as he made his way towards the Apparition point.

Someone stopped dead in front of him.

"Malfoy, this is a surprise."

He looked down to see Ginny Weasley smiling at him. Hermione. His heart tried to electrocute him with excitement at the idea that she might be close by.

Instead, he took a calming breath and replied, "Just shopping, Weaselette."

"Anything good?"

"I'm playing errand boy for my mother." He dared to look around and spotted more of the rag-tag band of supposed heroes. "Potter, Weasley," he added. It pained him to treat them with civility, but Hermione certainly would not like to hear he had hexed them in the street. His eyes kept searching.

"Malfoy," Potter acknowledged him, then he looked back over his shoulder. Draco followed his gaze. Potter had asked him something about his mother, and he barely had the sense to nod as his eyes finally locked onto the one person he wanted—needed—to see.

Hermione.

But she was with her friends. The chances they knew about… well, him, were slim. "Ah, Granger," he said lamely. "I knew you'd be close by. Not in the bookstore already?"

Perfect. Make fun of her. That's a great way to get her attention.

"I think that's our second stop," she replied. Her face seemed to brighten. Or was that wishful thinking? "We've only just arrived. Did you, I mean, are you headed there too?"

"Not today." WHAT? Why wouldn't you say yes!? "Mostly potion ingredients and Mother's list. After last term, I'm stocking up on—"

"—chizpurfle carapace!" They said at the same time.

Hermione grinned at him, and Draco forced an embarrassingly large smile into a smirk. He fingered the pouch in his pocket for only a second before holding it out to her. "Figured you'd need a pouch too after that abysmal display in Herbology with the Venomous Tentacula."

"You're one to talk! Have you replaced your gloves as well then?"

"I hardly think splashing one potion compares," he drawled as he pulled his other package out for her to see. She laughed so openly, with her eyes dancing and her head thrown back. He could not help but join in. Her face was a fucking miracle.

"Well, I'd say thank you for the carapaces, but I'm not sure if this is a thoughtful or mocking gift." Her tone was playful, and she was grinning at him.

"Can't it be both?" Finally. Thank you, brain. Something not idiotic.

"What's your game, Malfoy?"

Draco looked up with a small start. Of course it was the fucking Weasel. He slammed up his Occlumency walls as quickly as he could. Weasley, feckless git that he was, looked about ready to explode. Then, the wave of jealousy hit him. Weasley was standing so close to Hermione that the front of his robes brushed against the back of her giant nest of curls. He redoubled his mental efforts. Looking between the two, he could see the level of rage in Weasley's face was mirrored by the level of fear in Hermione's.

Were he a poorer Occlumens, he might have let this bother him. Instead, he kept his walls in place and met Weasley's stare.

"Ah, I see," he heard himself say. It was time to exit. "Potter, future-Potter, enjoy your holidays." He turned to Hermione. "Happy Christmas, Granger." The words meant nothing. All he wanted to do was leave, and preferably without being rude to her. He hastened down the street and got lost in the crowd. He thought he heard the Weaselette shrieking behind him, but any words were indiscernible over the din of the passersby. His feet took over, and he walked with purpose, even though he had no idea where he was going. He made it to the Apparition point, then turned around and kept on walking. There was no way he could Apparate in this mental state, nor could he show up at home like this. His mother would have a fucking field day.

After a few minutes of aimless wandering, he found himself entering a store. He looked around and came back to himself as he recognized the rows of books. Hilarious to think that even with his considerable Occlumency skills, his body had still betrayed him and brought him back to the one place that was overwhelmingly Hermione. He breathed in deeply and imagined he could smell the delicious scent of her shampoo.

"Malfoy?"

He turned around. Only his mental walls stopped him from jumping for joy. "Granger," he said and was thrilled to note she was alone.

She glanced over her shoulder. Was she checking that they were alone? Did she need them to be alone?

"Are you okay?" she asked him. Always so concerned about everyone else.

"Of course."

"Should I have told them?"

The walls in his mind rattled. "Told them?"

"About us? I didn't think we'd want to share yet."

"Us?" And they came tumbling down.

"Oh, I thought—" She looked down as she cut off. His heart, though, was exploding. Us? Could it possibly be that she was serious about him? To look at her, with tense shoulders and downcast eyes, it seemed the exact opposite. But, he understood, and he could not blame her. Who in their right mind would want to be seen with him? He could fix that for her.

"Come with me," he said. He took her arm and wound their way towards the back of the store. His thoughts were confirmed as she followed him without protest. That's okay, he told himself. Not wanting to be seen with you is better than not wanting to be with you. He stopped at some oddly placed shelves that met at a dead end nook and turned to her.

Hermione kept her eyes on the floor. He did not know what guided him, but his hand slipped under her jaw and tilted her head up to him. Gods was she beautiful. A sigh escaped him. He had to be closer to her. Her eyes finally snapped to his when he slipped his hand around her waist. Her lips parted for him, and he was done for. His mouth dropped to hers hungrily. He kissed her like a man starved. The way she responded was out of a fucking dream. She dug her fingers into his chest and dragged him closer by his shirt. His tongue sought hers, and when they met, he learned the taste of magic.

Only after several long minutes did they pull apart. Draco's was practically panting and felt a surge of pride to see she was too. Then, she smirked at him, and something of his brain returned.

"So there's an 'us' then?" he asked her.

The kiss she rewarded him with was a work of fucking art. He was lost in her, and he wanted never to be found.

"Malfoy."

Draco stuttered to a halt. Fuck.

That voice was unmistakable, and it was the last person he wanted to catch him in this state. Even his mother would be less smug and insufferable.