Pairing: Draco Malfoy/Hermione Granger
Setting: Head Prefect-Sharing-A-Room trope
Word Count: 786 words
Hermione retrieved the hand that dangled over the lip of the tub to stay dry for turning pages and ran a finger down the paragraph, and unwinding her wand from the bun of her hair and tucked it between the chapter. She placed her book and wand to the high chair next to the claw tub; she was meant to wash her hair anyway, so she let her locks fall over her chest and into the scented lukewarm bathwater. The water rippled as she inhaled deep, and submerged her head along with her Arithmancy-filled mind below docks.
Sounds muffled under water, movement became lucid, brainwaves turned stagnant. She knew she shouldn't be pushing herself so hard with schoolwork. She knew she shouldn't try to continue framing three long essays the size of what her parents' thesis had been worth. She knew she shouldn't think that her best friends would bother writing to her when they were busy with Auror training and joke-shop running. She knew she shouldn't boss the Prefects around and have them look at her as if the Head Girl was a chicken with its head cut off. She knew she shouldn't often get into verbal-sparring with Draco Malfoy just for the kicks. She knew. She knew.
She also knew that a certain House team's Quidditch practice was done ten minutes ago and someone certainly was not expecting the bathroom being occupied because it wasn't in their compromised schedule. Who knew she was not the only controlling freak of nature in wizardry existence? Why can't she have a bath at 11p.m. anyway?
Hermione broke the surface of the bath early just so the water could calm before he would barge in. She left only her chin up above water, and only her eyes and the top of her head would be seen if he had anticipated her 'violating his bath schedule' at the first place.
Draco Malfoy came into the room five seconds later, growling under his breath, his fingers fussing over his left elbow patch, his tongue poking out from his mouth at the corner in concentration. His fringe was matted to his forehead and at the back of his head, hair was sticking up all over the place as if the wind had caressed through his hair and loved the process.
Hermione couldn't help it: she bit down on the pad of her finger as she blatantly stared at him from head to toe. If anyone could carry the Slytherin emerald green, it was him. If anyone could carry the Slytherin Quidditch uniform, oh, it was definitely him; she wouldn't even be biased at her measurements: she briefly had a fling with a Bulgarian Quidditch stud, and her best friends were previously on the team. That man, even when he was struggling under his breath to free his shins from the protective gear, came out on top.
She was torn as to what emotions to bring out at his not-really-seduction with undressing. Gone was the graceful snot that was her stupid room-mate; she flattened her lips when he out-rightly cursed when his aching limbs couldn't reach the back of his chest piece. The whole situation was silly, she would admit, hiding naked just so she could have seats to the show her still-unsuspecting roommate was giving. But she had to rest her head quietly and gnaw on her fingernail when the show finally stopped being… ungraceful.
With the leather gear on the floor like confetti, and his cape tossed over his shoulders into a pool of silver, she could appreciate how the green uniform clung to him like second skin. Her pursed lips rose to the side as his flexing forearms clutched his biceps in, and her stare had to go down over his stomach to his behind, clad in those tight Quidditch pants.
Mind you, she still hated the sport, but as Malfoy pulled his shirt over his head and his hair stood like a bird's nest… no, she still couldn't stand the games, but uniforms and cool down exercises she could tolerate. A sheen of sweat dotted over his chest, and there was a patch of blue bruise at the centre of his ribs, and she watched him tracing the shape that definitely was from the circle of a quaffle, his tongue poking his cheek out. He peeled his gloves off and tossed them to the floor before grasping and with both of his arms planked over the marble washing basin, proceeded to do push-ups and counting them under his breath.
Oh, Hermione knew it was not polite to stare, so she turned her head back towards the ceiling, her hand to her mouth and hid her grin. And waited.
A/N: Writing this is physically straining I really couldn't with words. Back to my angst cocoon.