Title: Examinations
(Subtitle: Loser. Kisses. Winner.)
Author: luckdragon
Rating: oh, PG again I suppose
Summary: Life is full of tests. There's nothing that says they can't be fun.
Disclaimer: I don't own them, but I have invited them out to play.
Author's Note: On to Potions. Thank you so much for all your comments – knowing that there's people out there reading this, and moreover enjoing it is so very inspiring! You keep me writing! :)
Naturally, Hermione studied for the Potions exam as if she were mad. Every moment she spent focusing on the class was one less that she spent wallowing in shame over her brazen behavior in the library. Surely he realized that she had not meant to reinstate their silly bet.
Certainly such an understanding was what he was trying to convey when he rapidly recovered his facilities, winked, said "Time will tell" in that cheeky tone, and fairly swaggered away from the table.
Right.
The exam was on a sleeping draught, a very complicated timed sleeping draught. This meant several things to Hermione:
1. It was going to be difficult.
2. Of course, that didn't mean that she couldn't earn perfect marks.
3. But that particular accomplishment would be a lot more difficult for her with Snape's hand wielding the quill that would dispense the marks.
4. And a lot easier for Draco.
And, she reasoned, add number five: obviously, there was no more bet, so number four was a moot point.
Fellow Gryffindors began wondering whether there was some sort of spell creating the magnetic connection between Hermione's eyes and her Potions texts – perhaps the same one making her so distant and anxious half of the time.
Draco, of course, seemed to act no different.
Unless you counted the looks he kept tossing at her sneakily (or not so sneakily) in the library and in the class itself. There was the Arrogant Smirk of Look-at-Granger-Trying-So-Very-Hard, the Feigned Glare of I-Wasn't-Really-Looking-at-You, the Derisive Frown of Why-Should-I-Be-Forced-To-Share-This-Giant-Building-With-The-Likes-Of-You… Those weren't really different, but there was still the most dangerous look of all:
The one where his eyes got all dark, and then sparked just a bit, and at least one of the corners of his lips turned up, and he looked thoughtful, and evil, and worst of all, a bit eager. Oh yes, that one was sneaky.
That was the one that made the words blur a bit on the page while she felt her face turn into an electric beacon.
Strike the "eager" part… she would just call it evil all around.
The exam had two portions: written and exercise. She could ace the first with no problem. Snape could not find fault in her written responses. They weren't verbatim, but they were precise.
The latter was difficult. The latter was timed to the second. If her draught took effect one minute too early, or too late, or if her poor test rat was unconscious for more than twenty minutes…
As it so happened, her potion took effect exactly twenty-three seconds too early and held on for exactly seventeen seconds too long. Snape nearly raised his eyebrows with glee at the extra forty seconds. All the better to downgrade her with.
The next morning, Hermione woke with a nagging, fluttering ache in the pit of her stomach. She attempted to reassure herself by rationalizing: Snape couldn't possibly have graded the entire class's examinations overnight.
But he had.
Hermione had been right about one thing; she had received perfect marks on the written segment of the test. In practice, the forty seconds had cost her, although not dearly.
She suddenly understood sports enthusiasts. There were always margins of error, but the excitement lay in seeing whether they would be overcome or whether they would simply be too much.
Needless to say, the knot in her stomach only grew tighter. She barely ate dinner. How was she supposed to anyway, with him – appraising her like that from across the room?
She pondered following Harry and Ron to the Common Room after the exam to head off the situation altogether.
However, she wasn't a lion for nothing – she was proud, brave, and (like all cats) curious.
But she wasn't going to make it easy. Another thing about cats is that they play all the games by their own rules.
She sat on the cold floor outside the Potions classroom, pulled out a book, and waited. It took him a bit longer than the last time, but he found her within the half hour. She recognized his footsteps before she could see him, and took one last deep, apprehensive breath.
She didn't look at him until he nudged her foot with the toe of his boot.
"Granger," he said by way of greeting, taking a seat beside her.
"Malfoy," she said steadily. Suddenly, she became extremely aware of every discomfort in her body, and also of all the parts therein that weren't.
"So, do you often study on the floor in a cold dungeon hallway?"
"Not very often."
"The library seems much more logical."
"Ah, but variety is the spice of life."
"Indeed. Unfortunately, there's no more of it for you. I win."
"How can you be so sure? I didn't miss a single question on the written segment."
"Nor did I."
"I can't just take your word for that."
"I didn't think you would," he said, producing a folded exam paper. She looked over it briefly and frowned. In tall, slanted, cramped handwriting, he had indeed answered every question correctly. She didn't dare reverse the page to see the second mark.
"My potion wore off seven seconds early," he continued. "How about yours?"
Despite her earlier reticence, she then flipped the paper over so quickly that she nearly ripped it.
"Seven seconds?" she breathed incredulously.
"You too?"
"What? Oh… no…"
She couldn't lift her eyes, but she could certainly feel his prying stare. How could she be expected to lie properly under such scrutiny?
"Well?" he questioned, his voice standing at the edge of irritation.
"Fortyseconds," she muttered.
"Four seconds? Well, er, well-done, then, and – "
"Forty."
"Oh… ohhh…" She closed her eyes briefly, fairly hearing the confidence reblooming in his tone. "It's a shame, that."
She risked a glance upwards.
That bloody look.
It couldn't really be classified as a smile, and it couldn't really be classified as happy – no, it leaned far closer to smug, overconfident, and… and… energized. Not eager, not eager.
And now his self-satisfied gaze was holding her own. She realized with a jolt that her heart was pounding fiercely. It was very disconcerting, feeling like you were running a marathon while sitting firmly on the ground.
He cocked an eyebrow. "Well, whenever you're ready, you know where to find me," he said flirtatiously. Then he settled his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.
Bloody bastard.
And dear Merlin, he had a striking, aristocratic face, when it was this close… and peaceful… and not shooting you hateful looks.
Hermione gulped and shifted her book to the floor. At this noise, he twitched slightly.
She rearranged herself into a kneeling position, facing him at a three-quarters angle. Was he… was he… breathing heavily? No, certainly not. It was just the dizzy feeling… it was warping her perception.
She leaned forward very slowly, in ironic contrast to her rapid heart rate.
Her cheek made contact with his before anything else in a soft brush of skin, and from there it was only a scant head tilt to give him a very soft kiss, fitting her lower lip between his own.
And another, with a bit more force.
And another, again with a bit more force, and also with a bit more head tilt, which allowed her to draw lightly on his lower lip.
And he was kissing her back. Again.
She broke contact, releasing him, but he surprised her by leaning away from the wall without a moment's hesitation to reinstate their connection.
She inhaled a bit sharply, leaning back into the heat of his mouth. He kissed her with a bit more feeling, but it was still so simple, exploratory. It was slow. It was deliberate.
It was sexy.
For whatever reason, this word jolted her brain back into focus. She pulled back abruptly, and for a second or two, merely attempted to catch her breath, which was tangled with his – she hadn't pulled herself back more than a few inches. He was breathing a bit heavily, actually.
Then, her flurry of motion started.
It began with her turning her head away, continued when she rocked back onto her heels and retrieved her book, really gathered steam when she popped to her feet.
"Care of Magical Creatures. Two weeks from yesterday. I'm not going to lose to you three times in a row," she snapped, not really looking at him, yet still able to see the solemn, naked expression on his face.
Then she stalked away as haughtily as her shaky legs would allow.