Eight
Day: 1073; Hour: 13
He was infuriating, and she wondered if he was doing it on purpose. She had analyzed everything over the past few days, from the way he looked at her, to the tone of his voice, to his body language. She had been looking for clues to try and decide just what he was feeling, or what he thought, but he didn't give her any that she could take for fact. She was beginning to think the random moment in the kitchen was simply a one-time deal, a simple lapse of sanity, and that perhaps she should forget about the whole thing.
Except she couldn't. She had been kissed before, many times, but couldn't drag a memory of feeling up quite like the one she had experienced with him. She wasn't sure if it was because of how he kissed her, or if it was just because of who he was - who she was. There was something very wrong about it, but exciting all the same, and she liked it. Malfoy was a mystery, and she had no idea if that was because he liked to be, he didn't want anything to do with her, or if he was just using this as a way to annoy her. All three were likely.
The funny thing about those rare situations where two people block one another's route, and then try to sidestep each other by going in the same direction, was that you knew exactly what was happening but couldn't stop. Hermione knew when she stepped to the right that he would as well, and she knew he would go to the left after, but she still went to the left herself. They repeated the routine once more before he stood still and glowered down at her, and Hermione - who had come to think he was doing everything with the purpose to annoy her - stood still and glared back up at him.
"Do I have to move you myself?"
"You could easily move yourself, let me by, and then continue on your way."
"Are you always this immature?"
"Do you always think the world has to bend to your way?" she snaps back.
"Ridiculous," he mutters lowly, braces a hand on her hip, and pushes her aside as he moves forward.
She glares and pulls his hand off, and maybe she holds onto his hand a few seconds longer than needed, but he doesn't pull it away either. She makes her way to her teacup, her senses busy trying to track his location behind her, but the back door clicks and then she is alone.
Day: 1079; Hour: 10
"Oh, God," she breathes, his lips on her neck. He moves back to the spot that caused the words to slip, sucking harder, nipping her with his teeth.
It had been one week since they first kissed, and when he turned from the bathroom door and bumped into her, she suddenly couldn't control her reaction. She has been a bundle of nerves since last week, waiting for something to happen when nothing had. By the way he was kissing her back now, and all over her, she thinks that maybe he hadn't lost interest, but instead had been waiting for this. For her to make the move this time.
He is almost too much for her to handle. She had never felt so out of control and devoured by another person with just kissing, and it made her dizzy. Later, she will be nervous that he could cause such volatile reactions from her.
He has kept his hands on the decent parts of her as of yet, but his hand is creeping up along her ribs now, the fingertips on the other skimming along her waistband, and she wasn't sure how to feel about it. Hermione didn't think she was ready to let him touch her so intimately, and the unsure feelings made her pull away.
His eyes were dark, mouth swollen, cheeks flushed. He looked at her in a way that she cannot recall a person ever doing before, and it caused her stomach to twist and her breath to catch. His hand is fisted in her shirt at the back, but he doesn't pull her back, waiting and watching for her to do what she wants.
Okay, she thinks. Okay.
And she's kissing him again, pushing herself back into him so much that he staggers a step. He found a balance of their weight against the wall, and so she leaned fully against him, pushing all of her into him. She felt his hardness against her stomach, and breathes out harshly into his mouth, her eyes opening at the feel of it. She didn't know why she did not expect it, and it made her nervous, yet blows an overwhelming feeling through her of...pride? Power? Something she can't name, but that makes her keep kissing him despite it all. He cups her behind, pressing her pelvis closer to his, and she is equally startled by both their moans of acknowledgment.
She is turned on, uncomfortably wet against her knickers, and the feeling only increases when he squeezes her backside, thrusting against her stomach. Her heart pounds painfully, and she forces herself with more strength than she thought she could need, to pull herself away from him again. She desperately wanted him, and this scared her too much for her to stay, because this was not where she planned on going with him.
"I have to...to make dinner. Yes. Dinner. Food... I'm...hungry." He furrows and then raises his eyebrows at her, just as out of breath as she, as she stumbled over the words and blushes hot red.
She mentally berated herself all the way to the kitchen, and must lean against the counter for several minutes to compose herself.
Day: 1084; Hour: 18
"Dean!" He has the decency to look abashed.
"It won't stop."
"He," Hermione corrects, and when she goes to stop the house-elf currently content on bashing his head in, Dean stops her.
"It- He bites."
"Stupify!" She catches the elf as he falls, not wanting him to have any more injuries than he already will.
"Should we bring him back? Some Veritaserum, and I figure he'll speak up about his Masters at least."
"I don't see why not," Hermione murmured with a shrug.
Day: 1085; Hour: 1
"It is illegal." Moody smashes his fist off his desk, and Hermione, Dean, Cho, and Justin flinch back in reply.
"We weren't aware of that. We thought it was perfectly fine to bring in someone for questioning when they likely held knowledge of Death Eater activity." Cho tries, and Moody turns his beet red face toward her.
"It's not someone! It's a house-elf! It's property. Now, we have charges brought against the four of you from Crabbe Senior, for stealing."
"But he's a Death-"
"That doesn't matter. He is not proven, nor convicted, of being a Death Eater. He lent his friend, who he assured us he had no idea was a Voldemort follower, his house-elf, and wants action taken against you all for stealing his property."
"How does he know it was us?"
"He doesn't, but the Ministry does."
"But sir, we only brought him in for questioning, which is legal-"
"Under a Stupefy? I think not, Granger," Moody snaps. "Furthermore, house-elves are not considered people, but possessions. They cannot leave the property without permission from their owner."
"So, what is he going to do?" Justin shrugs. "Sue us? Who cares."
"You should care! The Ministry already holds a low public opinion for not 'handling the war properly', and are not at all pleased that Crabbe Senior is bound to release this to the press. Screwing up is not want we want in the papers with low public support! Furthermore, you went against the conduct book, committed an illegal act, and upset that fucking house-elf so much he cracked his skull enough to warrant ongoing medical treatment!"
"But, sir-"
"Suspension."
"What?" their four voices rose, enraged.
"One week suspension unless further notice. Get out of my office."
"Sir, you can't be serious! We-" Hermione tries, and Moody slams his fist again.
"Out!"
Hermione can't even find it within herself to be pleased when she finds Ginny on the other side of the door.
Day: 1091; Hour: 12
Hermione still has one day left until the end of her suspension, but the mission Malfoy planned is in two, and this is why she found herself sitting in the meeting room anyway.
"So I go in with Hermione?"
"No, Weasley. Again, you're with Finnigan," Malfoy snaps, angry and impatient that Ginny and Colin both don't seem to be grasping his plan.
"Oh."
"So everyone has it?" He waits a second. "Good. And do me a favor - don't take anything home with you unless you run it by me."
He looks at her for his last sentence, and she turns red and glowers at him. She had expected him to be nicer, or different to her somehow. But despite the fact that she kissed him again just that morning, or the way he brushed against her when he moved past her into the room, he still made sure to embarrass and anger her now. He had been the same since the very beginning, and had not adopted a sweet demeanor like Ron and the Muggle boy both had.
She practically stormed out of the room, angry at her own failure, and at him for pointing it out.
Day: 1100; Hour: 12
She had not seen him in over a week, but his mouth was just as hot and demanding as she remembered it. He had only been kissing her for twenty seconds, but the danger was more pressing than anything else. The house was full tonight with Aurors and her friends, and she does not want anyone to walk out and find them in the dark of the hallway.
"You were an utter prat last week."
"I'm always an asshole, Granger," he whispers back, attacking her mouth again.
She humphs her confirmation, kissing him for a second more before pushing him away. She left before the awkwardness that always comes when they realize whom they both are and what they are doing can set itself in.
Day: 1103; Hour: 17
"Chocolate is overrated."
"Wha'?" Neville asks around his current mouthful, aiming a disbelieving look at her.
"It is. I mean, there are some kinds that are lovely to eat once in a while, but... I don't understand how people can love it so much."
"You drink a cup of cocoa almost every night before bed. Or you used to, anyway."
"Hot chocolate is different."
"It's still chocolate."
"But it's not the same as eating it. The only good chocolate I can eat is this kind a woman makes near my parents' practice. It's-"
"Oh! I remember that. You brought that in during fifth year, after the summer holiday."
Hermione smiles nostalgically, nodding. "I can't wait to get home."
"Mm. Me too. I was just talking to Seamus about that. He said it didn't matter to him, because he doesn't really have a home. He said he doesn't feel like he completely belongs anywhere."
Malfoy makes a sound at this, likely because Seamus pales in comparison to how Malfoy must feel about the same matter. Hermione looks at him for a moment and then back to Neville. "That's sad."
"Yeah. He said he's taking up belief in that idea Luna had always been going on about."
"That no one has a home?"
"Yeah, and that they find homes in other people. Which is where our need for personal connection comes from, as well as loyalty. You don't burn your own house down unless there's no other option - that's what she said, remember?"
Hermione nods and smirks. "As well as that we're all descendants of gypsies, which is why we feel we have to connect with people rather than place."
"She was on to something though. If I was sitting here alone, I would feel a lot more out of place than I do with you here. You make it a little more like home, you know? I can relax more."
Hermione smiles sweetly at him, ignoring the amused look on Malfoy's face. "Thank you, Neville. I'm glad. You do the same for me. All my friends do, really."
"Is this Gryffindor mating season?" Neville blushes and Hermione glares. "Am I intruding? Should I give you two a moment alone, or will you just head off to the bedroom now?"
"Actually, I should go clean up that room. I trashed it a little too much last night." Neville stands, uncomfortable, the red just starting to fade from his cheek. Hermione was going to comment on being dysfunctional under the influence of so much alcohol last night, but changes her mind.
"I'll go with you." She wants to finish the conversation, and helping him clean is something more to do than sitting there.
She fully expects a snide comment from Malfoy at their escape to the bedroom, but when she glances over her shoulder toward him, she's only met with a steely glare to both their backs.
Day: 1104; Hour: 20
"Are you with anyone else?" There's no TV in front of the couch, so he stares out the window instead. She almost thinks it's a normal question before she pays attention to the heat behind the words.
"Why does that matter?"
"Because I don't want Gryffindor dick in my mouth every time I go near you." She scrunches her face in disgust, the words vulgar and disgusting.
"You sleep with other people, Malfoy, so I fail to see how it matters." Though, the last time she knew of was months ago, it didn't mean he wasn't.
"Just answer the question, Granger."
"Answer mine."
He shakes his head, fed up, and moves from the room without looking at her.
Day: 1109; Hour: 4
Malfoy presses against her back to retrieve a parchment from the stack in front of her. It's the first contact they've made in days, and when she pushes herself back, she tells herself it's an automatic reaction, rather than anything to do with the sudden flip of her stomach.
Day: 1116; Hour: 7
The breakfast Lavender places in front of her is slightly scary when thought of in an about-to-digest manner. Lupin had positively insisted on making breakfast for everyone that morning when they had all seemed to roll out of bed before nine; Lavender had refused not to be of assistance.
"It looks good, Lav," Hermione manages, and glares at Dean smiling like a fool at her.
She picks up her fork and scoots back in her chair, preparing herself, when her foot scuffs against something. She looks up across from her, Malfoy's eyes darting from the table and to hers. She looks back down at her plate the second he meets her eyes, but keeps her foot next to his to annoy him or feed her own sudden want to have it there - she denied the latter and sticks to the former. He does not move his own back, which is stretched out into her area to begin with, and if she concentrates hard enough, she can feel the warmth radiating from him. She wonders briefly if his socks match today.
She had told herself several times that it doesn't bother her that Malfoy seemed to be content on stopping whatever had started. But there are times when she catches him looking at her that she thinks perhaps it isn't exactly over just yet. She knows all she likely has to do is tell him, no, that she isn't seeing, or kissing, or sleeping with anyone. She was never one to give in though, and refused to tell him until he shows her why it's so important he knows - or that he is definitely not doing anything with anyone either. Because that she could understand. Lavender herself didn't sleep with anyone when she had a continuous lover; Hermione may not know the rules to this sort of game, but she picks up on things around her easily enough to get the idea.
It is very strange, her slight fascination with Malfoy. She thinks if he made her feel any less than he managed to, she would not bother. But the feelings he brought up in her were new and intense, and though they would have to stop somewhere, she hasn't been quite ready for them to now.
She will though, if that is what he wants. She would not put herself out to him like a girl desperate for his attention, or who is needy of him, or any other ridiculous notion he could reach, if she were to try to kiss him again. If he wants to, he can come to her. If he doesn't, she refuses to let herself care about it.
Day: 1118; Hour: 16
"What's up with you and Malfoy?" Lavender had rudely burst into the bathroom while Hermione was showering, and was currently primping herself in the mirror while Hermione counts to the seconds until she leaves.
"What?" She squeezes the soap too hard in her hand and it jets out, smacking off the shower wall.
"You're always staring at one another. He was eyeing you from the hallway and all the way to the bathroom just before."
"We hate one another. It-"
"It doesn't look like hate. It looks like a bit of sexual tension."
"Don't get any ideas, Lavender. Shagging Malfoy is something you only do," Hermione snaps, and it's too harsh and too mean, but she can't help it. Her heart is pounding, her throat dry, and her bones feel shaky under the weight of possibility that comes with being found out - even if it isn't something she was doing anymore.
Lavender pauses for a length of time, and when she speaks, her voice is crisp. "I've only done it twice, Hermione, and I would never do it again. With Malfoy, there's not even a single second where it doesn't feel like he's not just using you to get off. I've never felt so dirty."
Hermione tries not to think about her words right now, or the strange emotion that bubbles up at the bottom of her gut at the thought of Lavender and Malfoy. "You did it twice-"
"I thought it would be different. Look, don't judge me, Hermione, alright? I don't judge you, and I wouldn't, so don't."
Lavender is angry, hurt, but the door shuts with a click instead of a bang.
Day: 1119; Hour: 20
"You have to stop staring at me."
"Excuse me?"
"Lavender thinks something is going on because you keep staring at me," Hermione repeats, explaining more, and ignores the mention of her staring back.
Malfoy is not so quick to ignore it however. "The fact that she hasn't seen you staring is quite surprising, considering you are far less covert than I am."
"Fine," she blushes. "We'll both stop staring. Alright?"
He stares back at her as an answer, and her blush grows heavier. He places his notebook beside him on the couch and stands, his path to her a slow swagger. "What if I don't want to?"
"Want to what?" she asked, because her mind had suddenly dislocated from knowledge and common sense.
"Stop staring, Granger."
"Well...well, you have to," she mutters quickly, her breathing odd as he closes in more.
"I don't believe I like to be told what to do."
"Oh well," she tries, pressing her hand to her chest to calm her heartbeat, and dropping it away when he notices.
"What if I refuse? What are you going to do?"
"I'll hex out your eyeballs." She huffs, flustered, placing her hands on her hips to try and draw up more of her bossiness. He smirks, stopping inches from her, and she refuses to budge back.
"I don't think you can stop either, Granger. I don't think you want to," he whispers, his finger skimming over her arm, elbow, down to trace her wrist. "Want to know why?"
"Why?" she breathes, trying to remain indignant.
His hand finds her hip, closes around it, and she can just feel the pressure of his strength as he starts to pull her toward him when a crash sounds from the living room. They both jump, staring through the dining room and into the dim lit hall.
"Lavender?"
"Yeah?" her voice echoes back, followed by her footsteps as she appears in the hall and walks down toward them. She eyes them both suspiciously, despite that Malfoy's hand has dropped away, and Hermione realizes it's time to step back from the overwhelming heat of him.
"What happened?"
"I can't find my heels."
"Oh."
The three of them stand, the air thick. "Are you sure you don't know how to cook, Granger?"
Malfoy's voice is a mutter, and he clears his throat after, as if knowing it was too low to sound like he hadn't just come up with it. Lavender looks back to Hermione after her scan of Malfoy's person, and waits for the reply, likely still trying to figure out what she interrupted.
"Of course I know how to cook, Malfoy." He sends her a withering look and she rushes on. "I just won't cook for you."
"Fine," he scowls. "I wasn't up for being poisoned anyway."
Hermione rolls her eyes, blushing hard because she wanted to be an actress when she was younger, but she was horrible at lying. Well, she was good rather good at it actually, but not when it came to doing it to her friends. Malfoy moves past her, his arm brushing hers; Hermione thinks the action will give them away more, but he turns instead, throwing off Lavender with an insult.
"I would ask you, Brown, but I've already seen the horror you create."
She gives him a nasty look and turns, retreating back to the living room. Hermione waits until the room is clear before being able to breathe again.
Day: 1128; Hour: 9
It was a little awkward, her lying beneath him, his body resting against hers in all these areas. He had never touched her there before, even if it is just her leg, and her stomach, and all these spots that aren't even all that private. She can feel the motions of his bones, the pull of his muscles in his thigh and calf as he shifts. She can feel the wrinkles of his clothes, and the sound the rough fabric makes against her own. It feels so strange that this is a man, and this is Draco, and he was here, on top of her. She catches herself thinking back to how they got here, but stops, because that was no longer important.
His fingers tap down her arm, and they are stiff digits against her own, cold from the open window and calloused from war. He skims the pads in arks over her palms, up her fingers, and then down to slot themselves with hers. The room is silent except for the scratch of their clothing and the sound of their breathing, and it's almost painful, that silence. All that expectation and hesitation. Everything is slow and unsure, but still deemed necessary because it was what they want.
Though she doesn't want this, exactly. She would prefer to lay with him, and touch him maybe, but she does not want to have sex with him. In her head, she can see the faces of the people he has taken to his different beds before. Can remember the scent of sex on him when he sat beside her on worn couches. She doesn't want to be one of those girls. She does not want to be the one unwelcome when she wakes, or who had to sit in the drowning air when he ignored her at dinner. She wanted him to be an escape, but he always had been, and she does not think it had to be like this for him either.
"I..." His lips are still on her neck, where they had attached themselves twenty minutes ago when he grabbed her from the living room unexpectedly. He waits as if he knew this would happen all along. "I don't...I mean, I want to be here, and... But, I can't... I'm..."
She takes a deep breath to just shoot out what it is she means to say, but he raises his head, and the motion pauses her. His hand leaves hers, and he pushes himself up on his other arm, farther and farther above her until she is sure he will leave. He touches her face instead, and doesn't meet her eyes the whole time he looks at her.
"Can I touch you?" he whispers, hushed and deep, and when he breathes in, his stomach presses against her own flutter-filled one.
She licks her lips, stares up at his hooded eyes, and nods her head. He continues touching her face, looking lost enough to make her think he hadn't noticed her response. So she speaks her confirmation, and it makes him smile just a little. He probably thinks she's impatient for him to know.
Those roughened fingertips trail her jaw, her neck, to the line of her shirt, and down to her breast. He curves with the curve of them, like a ghost, or wind against the fabric.
"Here? Can I touch you here?"
"Yes," she whispers back, holds her breath in wait.
He lifts the whole weight of it in his palm, and she gasps just a little at the unexpected sensation of it. His hips move at the sound of her response, and she feels heat and hardness against her thigh. It makes him less patient, and he's quick to move his hand under her shirt, push under her bra, and cup her skin-to-skin.
She almost closes her eyes, but knows that she does not wish to miss any of this, or the very concentrated expression on his face as he watches his hand move beneath her shirt. She reaches up, hesitant, and touches the softness of his hair. He doesn't seem to react at all, so she only stays a moment longer before inching down toward his face. He shuts his eyes when she runs her fingers over them, and keeps them shut while she explores all those lines and features she had studied by sight for so long. It is his birthday today, and she tries to count the years on his face, but does not find them. His breath is warm on her fingers when she finally gets up the nerve to touch his lips, and his hand slides down her stomach when he takes her index finger into his mouth. She blushes, imagining it tastes like salt and soap, but he just continues swirling his tongue around it.
She starts when she feels his fingers sliding past the waist of her jeans and underwear, skimming and roaming against the soft skin at the bottom of her stomach. His eyes open at her jerk of movement, and he pulls his head back to get her finger out of his mouth when she made no motion to do it herself.
"Here?" She swallows, nods her response to his question, and his hand dips even further.
The angle is strange, and he looks slightly uncomfortable with it. Hermione reaches down numb fingers and struggles with her button. He looks her in the eyes the entire time, and it's almost unnerving how he has decided to do it now and avoided them at all cost before. She likes him doing it though, and doesn't look away, even when he pushes his hand down farther.
"Is this okay?" His finger skims her there, pushing deeper with a pass, until he hits the spot that makes her hips buck up against him.
She's already breathing fast and stilted, and his eyes don't stray for a second. "Y-yes. Yes, this is okay."
It is better than okay, actually. It is the best she had felt in a very long time, but she will feel stupid saying that out loud. He swirls the pad of his finger around and around, making her clutch his shirt at the shoulders, and thrust her hips every time he flicks his finger across her clit. His hips jerk back in reaction, and by the time he's thrusting a finger, two, inside of her, he's built a rhythm against her leg.
She curls her hand around the back of his neck, tugging periodically to try and get him to kiss her, but he doesn't. When she thinks about it, her body feels hot and her lips cold, aching for his attention. He hasn't kissed her since before their temporary stop, weeks and weeks ago. He keeps her fairly busy thinking about something else or nothing at all though, and for the first time in her life when the boys didn't get her drunk or that time she attacked the very man hovering over her, she feels very out of control. He could do whatever he wanted to her - could have torn off their clothes and taken her - and she would not care. Would welcome it, in fact.
The heat is sweltering up along her bones, and she is fucking his hand now, in a way that will embarrass her later. His breath is heavy, his pupils dilated, and his face flushed. She is close, close, close, close, and he pulls back. Slows it down, pauses, takes his time to still his hand and stare down at her, rolling his hips in circles against her. It makes her realize her situation, and that while he is all over her; she has been staying in the same spot. She becomes a little awkward, unsure of where to put her hands and what to do with them, but then his thumb swipes her clit and she forgets. It draws her attention fully back onto him now, and she realizes that had been the point, his expression a little petulant that her thoughts had wandered.
Her hands explore his shoulders, his back, as much of his chest as she can reach; though she was disappointed his shirt was still on. His fingers begin to move again, in slow, deliberate motions, and her hands are curled back into that hated fabric all over again. He brings her to the edge, pulls back, to the edge, back again. She is practically sobbing with want and need, and her blood is a living, angry beast inside of her. Pounding and throbbing, and all she wanted was to explode. That was all she wanted. Her mind was gone, and now there was only him and sensation, and absolutely nothing else.
"I'm going to make you come so hard, Granger. I'm going to make you come so. Fucking. Hard." He whispers this harshly against her forehead, trails his lips over her sweat.
He pushes his face into her neck, his tongue licking and flicking, his mouth sucking. He tastes the fierceness of her heartbeat, the vibration of her moans for him. His hips speed up, and his fingers follow, until she is crying out a plea for him to let her go, but it only sounds like noise and whimpers. She clutches his head to her, shifting her leg and making him groan loudly into her skin. He nips her neck, laves it, and then just breathes hot and hard, slipping sweaty against her own sweat.
He is almost undone, and so she knows he will let her come now. Her fingertips dig into his upper arms with the thought, and his hips speed up in reply. His thumb brushes her clit over and over, his fingers curving and making her cry out. The pressure is hard and tight against her skin, throbbing sensation at her core, in her thighs, her womb. There is a breath, a gasp of air that burns her lungs, and then her hips jerking violently up into him before she falls apart.
She was gone. Unaware of anything but the way she felt, and the explosion inside of her. The world black, her breath paused, and the feeling was overwhelming. There exists no world, or war, or sky, or bed. Only this place of balance between nowhere and him, and the way he has just made her feel. There was only that now.
She was slammed back into reality as if she had been floating and had fallen back onto the bed. She is still left uncaring of this fact though, and of absolutely anything but the need to breathe and drink in the last of how she felt. Her body was tingling, her mind reeling, as she panted and gulped for air. She was only dimly aware of her surroundings at first, and then he works his way back into her state of awareness.
He is heavy, and a beautiful burden against her body. He's fighting for breath as well, probably finding it humid in the spot between her neck and the bed. His fingers are still buried inside of her, his hair sticking to the side of her face.
Her arms are weak when she wraps them around him, and it takes him a few seconds before he slowly removes his fingers from her. He leaves a wet trail over her stomach, and then his hand leaves her all together. His body shifts back and forth, and then his hand was back, pressing against her ribs.
It is only when her breathing catches up to itself, and his evens out as well, that she begins to think about what she was supposed to do now. She knows he doesn't like to lie beside the girls he sleeps with, or in this case just does something sexual with, and she isn't sure if she wants to be the silly, naive girl who thinks that preference doesn't include her as well.
He rolls off her, taking the majority of the heat with him. The silence spoils the air again, but it is different than the first. This is even more awkward, more filled with tension. Perhaps it's all in her head though, because she knows she imagines things like that to be there when it's just inside herself.
She thinks of telling him about her predicament, of asking him what he wants her to do, but was already blushing at the thought of it. Instead, she resigns herself to not be the sort of girl she has always felt the most pity for, and refuses for him to leave her behind here or kick her out like he has all the others.
So, she buttons her pants and tugs her shirt down, blinks at the ceiling, and realizes she has no idea what to say.
"Thank you." Was what came out, and she thought it's probably the very worst thing to say after a thing like that, and to him.
She's hot red, mentally berating herself as she pushes herself up and out of his surroundings. He is silent, but she can feel his eyes, like something physical against her skin, all the way to the door.
She shuts it quietly behind her, and does her very best not to pound her feet to the same tune of her thrumming heart, and all out run to the bathroom and the privacy of her room.
Day: 1129; Hour: 3
She tried not to look at him over lunch, because she felt as if someone had given her a different set of bones in her sleep; shaped the same, but not hers, and she was left finding out what feels the same and what was different.
She thinks that she was meant to act as if nothing has happened at all, because that is all that she has seen from everyone else. However, something had happened, and she knows that she can't ignore that since the moment he walks into the kitchen.
She's blushing down at her eggs, and hates it, because she does it too often around him. She can't help but remember yesterday though; the way she lost control over herself, the embarrassing way in which she moved against him, her quick rush from the room, and her parting thanks. He must think her a shy little virgin, which she was, but it wasn't something she wanted him to think. He might even be looking at her as one might a used napkin - served its purpose, and was now trash-worthy. She had never been so unsure about how to act before, and she does not stop hating it for a single second. She glances up at him, his back to her as he rummages through the fridge, and wonders if he looks at her like they all look at Lavender - like he looks at Lavender. A girl willing to spread her legs with close to no incentive.
Can I touch you here? She remembers that as a constant loop of sound in her head all night, and the flush of his cheeks after he, she guesses, came in his trousers.
No, she should have said, and given at least some pretense of not being so willing to commit so far to something that was not much of anything at all. But she remembers the press of his body, the heat of his skin, the feel of his touch, and does not think she can regret it just yet.
"I thought you said no more staring?" She looks up from his stomach, darting from her thoughts, and stares up at him much like a bird in Arthur Weasley's headlights.
"Huh?" But she registers what he said, turning red and looking back down at her plate. "I was thinking."
"Oh?" His tone was nothing less than suggestive, and she rubs at her face to calm the color down. "You're oversized brain is going to explode one of these days, Granger."
"That insult is wildly overused and lame, Malfoy," she shot back.
"Considering your 'witty' arsenal, I can understand why you would be able to recognize it for so."
"Yes, it does take a bit of brilliance to recognize things that are lacking in such." She means her own brilliance for recognizing his own lackluster comebacks, but he twists her words and takes it as if she had meant his own brilliance for recognizing hers.
"Why," he ducks his head forward, smirking, "thank you."
She flushes again from the reminder of her parting words, and he walks with his usual swagger from the room. But it's different now then when he had first walked in, now something close to normal.
Day: 1133; Hour: 12
"So, I happened to hear you were cheating on your lifelong love Ron Weasley with an Auror named Dennis. Who you happen to have nicknamed Dennis the Menace, stolen from a Muggle movie about some crafty little kid, because of your Dennis' lean toward masochism and sodomy in sex. Which you happen to have like rabbits."
Hermione blinks long and slow at Justin, who stood rather amused at the other side of the table. It took her several seconds to process the new gossip circulating about her, and the remaining time from there until she spoke was acknowledging - quite uncomfortably - the people who had turned to stare at her. Malfoy, of course, included.
"The rumor mill seems to have been in the need for something scandalizing then, huh?"
"Oh, no denial?" Justin smiles, taking his seat.
"Dennis and I like to keep our private lives just that." Hermione rolls her eyes, and her remark is greeted with several different reactions - laughter from those that know her. She decides to clarify for those who don't get the joke. "Do we even have an Auror named Dennis?"
"Well, supposedly, you have him every night." Dean winks at her.
"God." She rubs at her face; she can't even talk sex with her girlfriends let alone a room mostly filled with males. "To clarify, I'm not seeing anyone. I don't know how that rumor started, or who started it, but it's rubbish."
She looks toward Lavender, the heart of most gossip when it came to making it with her personal life or spreading it. The girl she had aggravating in the bathroom a few short weeks ago, and who was likely the culprit behind it. Nothing too offensive, nothing damaging, but just enough to embarrass her.
"Oh, so you're single?" Seamus leers at her. "You can nickname me anything you want."
"Small Penis Seamus." Angelina cuts in, and most the table laughs much to said man's chagrin.
"The One Hitter Quitter of Ireland."
"The-"
"Oh, piss off, all of you," Seamus barks, looking back to her. "I think Hermione knows that making her own assessments is a very-"
"Hate to interrupt the pathetically sad Gryffindor tactics of seduction, but there's a meeting to be held. If you want to shag Granger, Finnigan, try it on your own fucking time."
Everyone's head turns toward the cold drawl at the side of the room; silence falling faster than their noise level had risen. The blond looks less than pleased at their idea of a meeting, and gestures stiffly toward his left. Neville stands quickly, nearly knocking his chair back in his rush to carry on before a fight can erupt between the two stubborn men.
Hermione keeps her eyes on Malfoy, watching his fist clench and unclench from his other side. He meets her eyes temporarily as he takes his seat again before returning his attention to Neville.
Day: 1133; Hour: 20
"Hey." Neville smiles, accepting the hot chocolate she holds out toward him.
"That really is a fantastic plan, Neville," Hermione tells him again, touching the other mug to Malfoy's arm when he fails to see her holding it toward him.
He turns, surprised, and stares at it for a second before wrapping his large hand around the base. His fingers brush her wrist and she looks up from his hand to meet his eyes.
"Thanks. It really just hit me. I don't know."
"What are you guys doing out here?" Dean speaks through the screen.
"We're starting a campfire to sing songs around it and roast marshmallows." He stared at her until he was sure she was joking.
"Seamus and I tried that once over the summer. We set a tree on fire." Hermione and Neville laugh as Dean joins them on the porch, pulling himself up on the railing. He pats the spot next to him and Hermione pulls herself up as well.
"I've still beat you by almost burning down the Potions lab."
"Eight times." Hermione smiles.
"Eleven," Malfoy adds, his voice distant.
"Eleven," Neville agrees with a laugh and a shrug.
Dean looks at Malfoy for a long moment, deciding on something. "I heard the Cannons beat the Caerphilly Catapults, Malfoy. As I remember, the Catapults were your favorite."
He gives a short, fake laugh. "Maybe before Danitz joined up, or they hired that cocky bastard Donavan as seeker. Once Markis dropped to second line from that Barrel Spin last year, it all went to hell."
Hermione sighs, glancing at Neville to share in her pain. There is nothing more common ground for most men than Quidditch, and despite that she is glad Dean took a bit of a jump, Quidditch talk is something she will never miss.
Light conversation kept the four of them busy until long after the last sip of cocoa in her cup had gone freezing cold. The sun had set and gone, the world dark blue, and Neville had retired for the night shortly after Dean. Hermione is left sitting on the railing, facing the house and counting the moths around the porch light. Malfoy was silent to her right, arms still braced against the railing and staring off at something she will never see.
"You know, I was honest at the meeting." She closes her eyes, blushing at her embarrassment, but it had been something she thought so much about saying, that it blurted its self out. She had been going back and forth over the idea if Malfoy would even still care, but she guessed she will find out now.
His clothes rustle, and the old wood of the railing squeaks as he adjusts his weight. "About the plan?"
"About not seeing anyone."
The touch of his fingertips to her knees was what had her snapping her eyes open. She had thought she would be able to hear him if he moved from his spot, but he was quieter than she has given him credit for. He was almost always more than what she thought.
"Not anyone?"
"Well...you...I guess, sort of...in...a way. Or whatever." She finishes lamely, rolling her eyes up toward the sky and shaking her head at herself.
She can't see his response, his face bent toward her legs as he pauses for a second. He places his palms over her kneecaps then, applying pressure to part her legs just a little more, and steps into the width as soon as there was room to do so. She was even with his face this way, despite that she had been taller than Dean and Neville when they stood next to her when she sat here. At times she forgets just how tall Malfoy is until she's standing in close proximity with him.
He watches his fingers climb up her leg, over the tightly clenched fingers of her hand on the railing, then trail up her arm. He sets them on a path over her shoulder, up her neck, skirting around her throat and along her jaw. His nail traces the curve at the bottom of her lower lip, and this was when he looked up at her finally. He was warmth, and she was something she can't describe but likes all the same. He has left goosebumps in the wake of his touch, and coupled with the coolness of night, she leans in toward him. His breath is warmth across her cheek as he looks away from her eyes again, setting a trail up her chin, her cheek, to her temple.
"You are the most stubborn girl I've ever known."
"Which clashes horribly with your own stubbornness," she whispers back, the moment frail and strange.
"Indeed." He smirks, weaving down her forehead, along the planes of her nose, and dipping to her lips again.
"We clash horribly all together."
He shrugs a shoulder, gripping her chin and tilting her head. "I haven't decided on this part just yet."
He tastes of cocoa when he claims her mouth for the first time in months. Her hands automatically reach for his shoulders, and when she wobbles dangerously on the rail, he wraps an arm around her back to tug her against him. She does not wrap her legs around him, though she will think she should have later, but clenches them tightly at his sides. She had nearly forgotten how much she liked to kiss Draco Malfoy, but he reminds her without reserve, content on leaving her breathless and numb, with her insides bursting up in remembrance.
Later she will wonder if he kept his lips from hers for so long because he did not know if anyone else has been kissing her; she will find this more than odd considering he wasn't put off enough to do other things, but it is the only explanation she could find. For now, all she could think about was each current second, forgotten once the next one came, and memorizing the taste, feel, dips, and curves of his mouth.
Day: 1139; Hour: 5
She gets a note, folded in quarters, from Lupin taped to her bedroom door. By the deepness of the creases, she guesses that it has been read by several passing curious people in the length of time she has been gone from Grimmauld Place.
Ron is with Harry, it reads, only and simply. She forgets her anger at the trespassing of her personal note, because Lupin has left it out in the open for a reason. To bring hope to everyone, as much as it brought hope to her. It meant that Harry's Horcrux search team had been disbanded, and it was left to the other team of Aurors they sent to find the last Horcrux before the Death Eaters. It meant it was all almost over. Most importantly, it meant her two best friends were safe for now; this brings her contentment and sleep.