Side-ship: Hogwarts Alumnus/Veela
It had been half an hour since they'd stood at the painting of some Hogwarts alumnus guarding the eighth year common room—who had long since vanished within a veela's two corridors beyond, whom he was 'dating'.
Half an hour of arguing about whose fault it had been.
Malfoy had groaned, "We would've been on time if it wasn't due to your bloody map."
He was referring to her extremely detailed map of all the most important corridors, alcoves and classrooms they had to check, including several popular snogging spots.
And she had grumbled and said, "I wouldn't have had to make a map if you didn't try to take the shortest route possible and skive off early."
But deep down, the truth, she knew, was that they had simply treated tonight's rounds like a game of cat and mouse; she had dragged him along the routes in her map, he had spotted one of his shorter routes and tried to sneak off, she spotted him, they argued for a bit before relenting and A) she grudgingly took his path or B) he muttered some curses before trudging after her.
Before they knew it, it had been after midnight when they reached the portrait guarding the common room and promptly got stuck outside- no matter how many unlocking spells she tried. (The room was warded by McGonagall herself anyways, to automatically lock in case any tipsy eighth year who had ignored curfew tried to force their way inside; courtesy of Zabini.)
Hermione sighed and transfigured her jumper into a squashy purple sleeping bag, before dropping onto it. She cleared her throat, so that Malfoy looked down at her, then patted the space beside her. He looked at the empty canvas a moment longer, as if debating arson, then slumped beside her.
"Hey," she said, nudging his knee.
"Ow. What, Granger?" He frowned at her.
"I've got a dairy milk. bar Want half?" She dug out the hunk of chocolate she'd charmed to stay cool from her pocket.
He squinted at it. "What's that?"
She rolled her eyes. "A chocolate. Obviously. "
"Muggle?" He asked.
Her shoulders dropped, as if she was disappointed for some absurd reason, and her palms felt hot and clammy holding it out like a fool. She made to shove it back in her pocket. "Never mind," she muttered.
His hand shot out, grabbing her wrist, and his hand felt smooth and warm wrapped around her. "Granger, wait. I'll have it."
The bright purple letters declaring the name of the candy blurred.
"It's fine Malfoy—"
"Don't chicken out on me, Granger," he said and grabbed her wrist, ripping open the wrapper with his teeth, biting a chunk off, his lips brushing her fingers.
Her heart stuttered.
He chewed and raised his eyebrow at her. "Caramel?"
"It's my favourite," she admitted, her cheeks stained red.
He flashed a wide grin. "Mine too."
McGonagall found them in the morning, curled into each other in a single purple sleeping bag in front of the portrait for the eighth year common room.
His head was buried in the crook of her neck, arms slung around her hips. She was curled into him, their legs tangled together.
She stared for a minute, before the corners of her lips curved upwards slightly. Then, walked away.