Title: Scarlet

Summary: A dungeon interlude. Really…who caught whom?

Draco is curious.

He corners her in the dungeons after potions, blocking her exit with a trailing sleeve and a leer. Her pale legs seem to stretch out forever under her coarse starched skirt, and there is a sense of indecency to it, something hidden and hot that invites his imagination to wonder where the stems of her thighs lead. And it doesn't matter if she wears her skirts four inches longer then her house mates—there is something very vulnerable in seeing the skin of Hermione Granger.

"So do you make it a habit to flash those legs at boys?" he sneers at her. Her fingers flutter around her schoolbooks and she takes a timid step back. Her expression, however, is gloriously flushed. Her long lashes rest dangerously on the fragile curve of her cheekbone.

"I don't flash," she enunciates hotly. And then, as if she senses his curving smile, she quickly adds, "And if I did, why would you care?"

He scoffs, looking at the hand against the wall. "Care? No. I don't care…" His eyes steal back to her face. "…I'm just…curious."

She doesn't respond the way he wants. Instead, she rolls her eyes and starts tapping her foot. "Well if that all, I really need—" she starts.

No. Thinking quickly, Draco leans forward, enjoying the way she pulls back in alarm. After a deliciously long moment, he says particularly loud, "I was just curious when you became such a scarlet woman." He waits.

Granger stares at him wide-eyed. Then, to his utter disappointment, she laughs. "Scarlet woman?" she asks incredulously, and something in her tone makes him flush with embarrassment, though he isn't sure why. "Scarlet woman, is that really the best you can do? And really, what is it with purebloods and that word?" she smirks with superiority, and Draco scowls. Before he realizes it, he is moving closer.

So close, her breathe plumes against his cheek.

"Do you know what the word means?" he demands hotly, and Granger immediately shuts up. Not at his words, but at the sudden proximity between their bodies. He swings his other hand against the wall so that she is trapped between his arms.

"What are you doing?" she asks nervously.

"Do you know what the word means?" he says lightly, but his eyelids are heavy, and he knows she is seeing something she doesn't quite recognize, something warm and dark. Her pale legs catch his eyes again momentarily. They are trembling slightly. He is grinning wildly when he looks back up at her face.

"Well?" he says.

He watches with satisfaction as her eyes dart all over the place, his eyes, his hair, his cheeks, his chin. His lips. And she licks her own. He closes his eyes briefly. Behind his eyelids, he can see the sparks of her mind racing.

"Yes," she replies hoarsely, then clears her throat. "I'm—I'm not. I've never…" she trails off as he opens his eyes. Sees her. Drinks in those fragile cheekbones—and their dark brown little veins, pumping that muggle mud. He is aloof enough to know that some tiny, tiny part of him is disappointed in that (muggle…muggle). But he is also smart enough to know it has nothing to do with blood, and everything to do with magic.

So he is not going to regret this. "Are you sure?" he whispers, and then he leans forward, and the flesh of her lip slips between his, and her lip moves for the briefest of—

She pushes him so hard that he hits the opposite wall. The sound of books tumbling and scattering reach his ears as he tries to regain control of his body. When he finally looks back at her, slightly disoriented, she is radiating with such white fury that he feels a sharp coil of heat in his belly.

"You—you" she is sputtering and shaking so hard, but her eyes, her eyes are roving "you prick!"

He snorts. "Prick?" He picks himself up off the wall, and an evil though darts to mind so easily, too easily. "Is that the best you can do? I mean really, what is it with mudbloods and their pricks."

The tears spring to her eyes so fast he is almost taken aback. "I'm not a 'scarlet woman'," she hisses with such putrid venom. "You came on to me. You stole it from me. My first—" she ruthlessly cuts herself short.

But Draco is not stupid. A wide and terrible grin spreads across his face. "Don't kid yourself, Granger. You're just angry cause you wanted it," he retorts, and waits for her gloriously heated denial.

And waits. And waits.

There are real tears in her eyes now, trickling down those fragile cheeks, but Granger is pressing her lips so tight her jaw might splinter open. She only gives him a look, something warm and dark, something indecent…no. Vulnerable.

And then it hits Draco.

His jaw drops open in surprise.

Granger flees.