"Ancient lovers believed a kiss would literally unite their souls, because the spirit was said to be carried in one's breath." – Eve Glicksman

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Interlude: A Draco Story: Part I

In which Pansy receives a rude wake-up and Draco has a spaz attack…

June 12, 1997

There are many people in the world. Billions, in fact. There are so many people that to comprehend how many people there are in the world would lead one to a maddening sense of insignificance.

An unfathomable percentage of those people (we'll say eighty-two for the sake of proportion) would tell you that they've been touched by destiny, that their lives have been directly affected by a higher power.

Most, if not all, of those people would be lying.

Contrary to popular belief, Destiny does not take part in the every day life of Joe the Ice-cream Truck Driver, or Maritza the second-grade teacher, or even Bob, head of the U.N.

Destiny doesn't spend her time bringing together the world's mundane couples, who would, without a doubt, find each other unassisted.

She doesn't even bring together some of the world's most interesting and influential couples, who are often brought together simply because they are so interesting and influential.

Destiny spends most of her time getting divine pedicures at her own personal spa. When, as is required of her, she must interfere in the lives of mortals, she isn't too partial as to where she puts her finger and often will just destine some brown cow in Dingle that it might become better acquainted with it's neighbor.

Years into the future, couples declare that their love was written in the stars, that destiny alone brought them together, that they alone were destined to make it, when really, their story is identical to ten-thousand-three-hundred-and-two other couples', and it was really their rabbit who was destined to find love.

Destiny is simply far too busy with her cuticles to deal with the lives of mortals.

So, she leaves all that fate stuff to her secretary and sister, coincidence.

Thus, it was not Destiny which struck Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy one fate-like Saturday in July, but a coincidence. It was, one might say, a very elaborate and improbable coincidence, but a coincidence just the same.

Heeeeeeeeeeeee

Draco grated his teeth and resisted the urge to turn around and blast the whole couch into dust. He would, later, but at the moment he was far too busy with a model quidditch set he'd just received in the mail.

Haaaaaaaaaaw

A group of second years playing exploding snap in the corner failed to repress their giggles.

Heeeeeeeeeeeee

He jumped so violently that the hoops he'd been erecting on either side of the miniature field toppled over. Heh heh, erecting… he thought, but there was no time to laugh about it at the moment, he had much bigger, and more amusing, fish to fry.

Haaaaaaaaaaw

He knocked the model stadium aside and turned 180 degrees, getting a minimal rugburn on his knees. The things I do for justice! he sighed inwardly and waved animatedly in Pansy's face. She remained slumped across the faux-velvet green couch, one bent arm under her head, the other hanging ungracefully down to the floor. All her laboriously curled auburn hair was falling onto her face and into her mouth, which didn't mind much as it was busy drooling onto his, Draco Malfoy's, sweater, which she'd taken without his permission, blessing, or consent, and balled up under her head like a philistine's pillow.

None of this was, however, the main problem (though he was rather upset about the jumper).

Heeeeeeeeeeeee

The problem was that Pansy was snoring; and it wasn't that cute, open-mouthed, whistling thing that both the Patil sisters did when they slept in class (though that annoyed Draco quite a lot, as well.). Oh, no. Listening to Pansy snore was like having a jackhammer alternately drilled into your forehead and kneecaps. In fact, if one were asked to give a physical description of Pansy Parkinson based on her snoring alone, one would be most likely to describe a morbidly obese, hung-over Minotaur, passed out on the floor of a chainsaw factory, strangling kittens with one hand and dragging nails down an infinite expanse of blackboards with the other, at which the questioner would then look pointedly at one, then at Pansy, then back at one, and would then declare that one was exactly correct and one would be receiving one's prize in one's post.

Haaaaaaaaaaw

Of course, it would be simple enough to just erect (there was that word again) a silencing charm around the couch, but that just wouldn't be any fun, and Draco didn't see the point in doing something if it wasn't fun for him.

Heeeeeeeeeeeee

He slowly, carefully withdrew his wand from where he'd put it in his sleeve.

Haaaaaaaaaaw

"Locomotor Couch…" he said, and then, as an afterthought, "Exarum". Slowly, carefully, the couch drew back a few paces, making low noises of irrelevant protest on the stone floor. The second years who'd been giggling moved hastily out of the way as it slid through their game and came to rest against a far wall. Pansy mumbled sleepily, still dozing on a sofa that was no longer there. Draco stood, leaving her to hang an instant while he retrieved his jumper, which had been carried away with the settee.

Heeeeeeeeeeee

It was, as he'd expected, sporting a disgusting wet spot on one arm, where she'd clearly been slavering. He held it a fair distance in front of him and walked back over to where she was still floating, stirring slightly on cushions that were no longer there. He considered. True, it was quite amusing to watch her snoozing mid-air, but it wasn't enough. It wasn't enough at all.

Haaaaaaaaaaw

Truthfully, even a Gryffindor would have thought to levitate her, thus giving her a good fright and perhaps a painful landing when she woke up. Truly, that was amusing, but it wasn't enough. He wasn't, after all, a Slytherin for nothing. He had cunning (sometimes) and ambition (within limits) and an end in sight that certainly justified whatever means he could supply. Draco Malfoy liked to think that he never did things halfway (not the things that counted, anyway).

Heeeeeeeeeeee

The second-years had regrouped and were now watching him like vampires watching a particularly bloody war, whispering in pre-pubescent tones about things that failed to interest him. So it was to be a show, then.

Haaaaaaaaaaw

He concluded his consideration and plowed into Act II: Pansy's Punishment. He made a dramatic sweep with his wand and stabbed the air directly before her face with what he hoped was a decisive air. She replied with a particularly loud snort. The second-years giggled. He swung the wand back and forth over the length of her sleeping form. She mumbled something about Gladrags. Draco smirked, Gladrags indeed. If new clothes were what she wanted, far be it from him to deny her. He drew large circles in the air above her sleeping form. "Nonconspicio Incantatem" he whispered drawing a small line in the air before her nose. A rectangle of thick, silver magic eked slowly, laboriously from his wand tip and floated down to cover her closed eyelids like a shimmering, woolen blindfold. It flickered there for a moment longer before she gave a particularly loud snort and it faded away. He smirked. It wouldn't be prudent to have her notice that anything was the matter, would it?

Heeeeeeeeeeee

Next, he wove a series of quick, simple spells over her top, a light pink tee with the acronym "WILF" splattered in scrolling kaleidoscope letters across the chest. He pulled back on the wand, feeling each of his incomplete spells tug back. With a flick of his wrist the spells morphed and melded together in a confused orgy of green sparks. Unsure what it was supposed to be doing, the magic, and the shirt along with it, vanished.

Haaaaaaaaaaw

Of course, there were better, more effective ways to make something invisible, but Draco always felt a strange surge of creative pride every time he could confuse an object into disappearing. It was a rare, relished feeling.

Heeeeeeeeeeee

It was lucky for Pansy that she'd chosen to wear a bra that day, Draco ruminated, rather than just casting a support charm, as she usually did (why Draco knew this was a private matter between Pansy, himself, and the rest of Slytherin house).

Haaaaaaaaaaw

Not yet near completion, he was really having quite a bit of fun, he moved down to her skirt, which was already quite short, but which he felt could do with a bit less fabric.

Heeeeeeeeeeee

He waved his wand. The second-years were, by now, enraptured in his every movement. "Substricto Minimus…'Babe'" Nothing happened, it wouldn't until she got up and started talking. His audience made a small noise of disappointment. He made the hand-gesture equivalent of "shut your mouths you sodding tots."

Haaaaaaaaaaw

He moved back up to her forehead, the scrolling text on her shirt had given him an idea. He aimed at her forehead.

Heeeeeeeeeeee

He thought. He'd seen someone do the spell he was trying to recall a few years before. It was a practical joke spell, dead funny if you weren't the one casted on. He sighed. It wasn't a complicated spell, at least, and he stood very little risk of getting it wrong (he was just that good), it was a win-win situation, as far as his pride was concerned. "Revalo Mens Mentis" he hissed. Instantly, words in a curvy pink script began scrolling right to left across Pansy's smooth white forehead. He let out the breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding. A perfect mind-reading spell, in the literal sense of the word "reading." "I love kittens," one of the scrolling phrases read. He snorted. Poor, predictable Pansy.

Haaaaaaaaaaw

Assured that his plots were complete, he went back to his spot on the floor, facing her. He licked his lips in anticipation, took a deep breath and—

"PANSY!"

Immediately, her head snapped up and she crashed to the floor, landing in a confused pile of invisible tee-shirts and scrolling pink thoughts.

He roared with laughter, clutching his side and falling sideways as she sat up and tried to figure how she could have fallen so far from the sofa.

She turned to him, forgetting for the moment that she'd recently fallen a good six-feet away from where she was sleeping. "Hey, babe," she cooed. Immediately, her skirt took it upon itself to show more thigh, moving up a few good centimeters.

The second-years giggled.

Pansy crawled over to where he was sitting, a shag somewhere in the near future filling her dark eyes. She leaned into his ear and whispered, in what she apparently thought was a sexy way, that it was the last night of their days at Hogwarts, and she hoped he might meet her in "that fourth floor closet by the library," right after the End-of-the-Year banquet to celebrate their freedom.

"Merlin, I'm horny," the words scrolling across her forehead said. "Shag me now! Shag me now!"

He choked back another bout of laughter, perhaps being a little too enthusiastic in his hacking cough, because when next he looked she was watching him with worried interest. He nodded that he would meet her and she kissed his earlobe in a way that could never be described as "chaste".

"I'm going to go find Millie. Okay, babe?" she whispered. Her skirt shrunk further. "Millie Millie Bo Billie Fee Fi Fo Fillie Mi-i-i-illie," her forehead said.

He nodded again, trying to hold back another wave of naughty giggles barely trapped behind his lips.

"See you later, babe." Her skirt's bottom was now hovering dangerously close to it's top. "My legs are cold."

She stood, straightening a shirt that only she could see, the blindfolding charm would prevent her from noticing anything wrong with her clothing for a good hour. Hopefully, he'd be far away when she discerned that her shirt was less opaque than usual.

He was held up after the feast by a particularly put out Peeves, who rolled a wide red carpet down the stairs after him, forcing Draco and a gaggle of Hufflepuff girls to duck into an awkward side corridor which didn't go anywhere near to "that fourth floor closet by the library."

Once he'd got his bearings in a wide passage filled with portraits of ancient-looking merpeople, he headed off in a direction that may or may not have brought him closer to the fourth-floor and the library.

Luckily, his chosen direction brought him much closer to the desired location. In fact, he found himself almost directly outside of their "Damp Closet of Passionate Lurve," which was, in actuality, just Hogwarts trying to be helpful, but which he took as yet another thing to add to his List of Reasons Why Malfoys Are Superior to Everyone Else Who Ever Existed or is Going To Exist. He could just see it: Reason Number 1,712: A naturally fabulous sense of direction.

It truly was a marvelous list.

He opened the deceivingly anonymous door and sidled inside, letting the door creak closed behind him in a highly ominous manner.

It was very dark. Pansy was not there. There were a lot of bent brooms and some quaffles and a box whose angry vibrating indicated bludgers within, but no matter what resemblance a knocked-up broom or a shaking box of bludgers bore to his girlfriend, they were not her.

He waited.

He was very bad at waiting, mainly because he was insufferably impatient and had grown used to instant gratification after years of living with his mother, but also because, regardless of what he told Blaise Zabini on Monday nights when neither of them could sleep, he really was rather fond of Pansy (she was, after all, very bad at strip poker), and he was, secretly, maybe, in the deepest, most hidden corners of his soul, a smidgen worried about her. One never did know what could happen to a seemingly topless young woman wandering the halls of Britain's oldest and finest wizarding institution. Anything was, indeed, possible.

Of course, Draco couldn't know that Pansy had been stopped by one Minerva McGonagall for the crime of indecent exposure and was relegated to sit in the transfiguration professor's office until McGonagall found time to give her a stern talking to. It was in this manner that she missed the end-of-term feast and also their highly anticipated closet rendezvous, which was lucky for Destiny, as it made her job much easier. Merlin only knows how history would have been altered if Pansy had actually shown up.

He waited a bit more.

The closet was still dark and Pansy-free.

He cast a silencing charm on the door.

Still no Pansy.

His watch ticked. His toe kicked something round and bucket-like. It clanged.

He started singing. "I've got a lovely bunch of coconuts, do-do-dee-do, there they are all standing in a—"

He froze. Someone was standing outside the door, someone who was shuffling their feet and generally being a mess.

Was it Pansy? If so he hoped she'd hurry up with the teasing and find her way through the door, it was really rather dark and—

The door was thrown open. A giggling someone (Poor, predictable Pansy) jumped in beside him and slammed the door shut after her.

An eternity of waiting and the relief of knowing he'd not been stood up pushed him forward as he half-jumped, half-fell onto her, pressing his lips zealously against hers (disgustingly chapped, did the girl not know the wonders of a good balm?) as she muffled a cry of surprise ("Serves her right!" he thought.) and then started kissing back. He purposefully began lifting her shirt, as usual, expecting her to giggle like she always did.

But, instead of a giggle, he received a swift kick in the stomach. He slammed roughly against the opposite wall. Brooms clattered and fell. He opened his mouth to ask what business she had inviting him to a broom closet if they were not going to have mad, passionate sex, but she beat him to it.

"Is this your 'big surprise', Ron?" a familiar voice that made him feel like retching and stabbing something all at once said. "A juvenile attempt to get under my bra? How romantic!"

He shuddered, momentarily at an uncharacteristic loss for words.

"Lumos!" said Granger.

In Draco Malfoy's memoir: My Life: It's More Interesting Than Yours, he says that there were three times in his adult life when he lost full control of his emotions. One, he says, was the day his first daughter, Clare, was born. Another was the day he thought his fiancé was cheating on him and collapsed in the middle of Diagon Alley. The third time was the first time he ever kissed Hermione Granger.

"GAAAAH!" he screamed, the sight of her gawking at him with those big beaver teeth combined with the sudden light burned his eyes that much worse.

"Mal—"

"GET OUT!" he roared, throwing open the door and hurling her bodily from the closet. The door slammed after her with a satisfyingly thunderous BOOM! and because he had so wisely cast a silencing charm on the door he was not subjected to hearing her protests (which were non-existent.)

"EW! EW! GROSS! GROSS! EW! GROSS! EW! EW! GROSS! GROSS! GAH!" he shouted, pounding the walls with his feet and fists, spitting onto the floor. That was so, so wrong. He'd known something was off as soon as he'd noticed her lips were chapped but… he screamed again. The Quidditch Supply Closet was his place! His! What gave her the right… no, the nerve!

He kicked the wall again. A few more brooms fell over.
"AH!"

The door opened again.

"GO AWAY!" He screamed at her.

"Draco, what's wrong?"

He turned. There was Pansy, full clothed (for the moment) and silhouetted in the doorway.

"N-n-nothing." He took a deep breath and beckoned her into the closet.

"Here," she smiled, watching him through thick eyelashes as she began to unbutton her blouse. "Let me make it better, babe." Her skirt shrunk a bit more.

And thus, Draco Malfoy felt nothing the first time he kissed Hermione Granger. Or rather, he felt nothing positive. He felt repulsed, for certain, and he felt very ill for the next few days, but he didn't feel any magic spark that would show him she was the one. He kissed Pansy Parkinson and trusted that the rushed, heady kisses of teenage love were good enough.

Mostly, he put it behind him. He trusted mudblood Granger not to tell anyone about their close-encounter, and he went back to nodding and smiling whenever his mother talked about his and Pansy's future children. But what he couldn't know, what no one could have known, was that that first kiss, that first, disgusting, sloppy, badly-timed kiss, was the match that would come back to haunt them both when that elusive first spark did flare up.

A/N: So perhaps this chapter is a bit later than it ought have been. Oh well. I had to have a wrestling match with myself after HBP about whether or not I was going to change my future story plans to match up with this. As you can tell I clearly have not, as we can probably effectively guess that neither Malfoy not Hermione will be at Hogwarts thier 7th year, and so will be unavailable for accidental make-out sessions. Hey, at least neither of them died! (sorry if you haven't read it yet, but you really should have by now)