He knocked on her door at 11 the next morning, but there was no response. She was probably still asleep, he thought; after all, they had left the morgue at 3. That excursion, at least, had given them some good news: they had found zero people infected. Dolohov – or whoever was spreading the curse – wasn't in Paris.

Draco spent the next hour languidly strolling about the hotel and its surroundings, savoring that exhilarating feeling of freedom. He had a wand and no obligations, making this the best week he'd had in years. Even the crowds of muggle pedestrians couldn't dampen his good spirits. He stopped by a cafe and had breakfast, ordering some extra for Hermione to-go. On the way back to the hotel, he chuckled at the poor souls who were forced to endure the sharp bite of the cold weather, while his own body basked in the warmth of a simple charm.

He was finding any excuse to do magic, making up for years of lost time. Being able to cast a spell again was like coming out of coma: the world became brighter, louder, bigger. His senses were heightened, elevated to heavenly highs. It must be what an ex-alcoholic feels indulging himself in a sip of whiskey after years of forced soberness.

This feeling was addictive, and Draco had to struggle to keep his wand in his pants. Magic users couldn't cast spells indefinitely; eventually, fatigue settled in, and some time had to pass for a witch or a wizard to recuperate. Draco had already overextended himself at the morgue; his body ached like he'd run a marathon without stretching any muscles beforehand.

Still, tapping into his neglected reservoirs to use that magic felt so good that he hadn't been able to resist casting the warming charm.

Carrying the little box from the cafe, he made his way back up to their rooms, knocking on Hermione's door along the way. Again, there was no answer. He frowned: it was half past one already. Surely, she should be up?

With a quick glance around the hall to confirm it was empty, he tapped the door handle with his wand, whispering a quick alohomora. Instead of unlocking the door, the spell backfired, sending a jolt of pain up his arm.

"Son of a Hufflepuff!" he swore, jerking the hand back and blowing on singed fingers. Hermione had obviously charmed the door against intrusion, and he was not about to attempt breaking the wards of a witch that had not only perpetually bested him in school, but had years of additional practice on top of that.

He was in the middle of contemplating several roundabout methods of gaining access to her suite (one of them included jumping onto her balcony from his), when he heard a shuffling sound from behind the door followed by a cough, and then it was forcibly wrenched open.

"What?" growled a creature that bore only a faint resemblance to the famous witch. Her hair, still a sandy shade of blonde from the beauty potion, formed a writhing halo around her head. Tangled and messy, sporting odd turns and an abundance of knots, it seemed to have a life of its own. With a gulp, Draco remembered a picture of Medusa he had seen in some history textbook; the shape and texture of Granger's hair was eerily similar to that of the Gorgon's.

Large raccoon circles around bloodshot eyes, in addition to a rather pallid complexion, would have completed the ensemble, had the girl not been squinting menacingly in his direction.

It looked like she'd had a hell of a night, and he'd just risen her from her slumber.

"Breakfast?" he offered lightly, extending the box with the peace offering before she bit his head off.

Granger glowered in response, but then her eyes focused on the steaming cup of coffee in one of his hands. She grabbed it hungrily, ripping off the cap and blowing on the liquid before taking a sip. Her whole body relaxed, and she turned around, waving for him to come in with her other hand. He followed her into the suite, placing the rest of the to-go bundle on the coffee table that still housed traces of yesterday's dinner.

"Rough night?" he asked, taking a glance around. Her bed was still made, the covers just lightly ruffled, while several lamps shone brightly despite an abundance of light floating in from the windows. It seemed like they had remained lit all night.

"Couldn't sleep," Hermione admitted, taking a seat and slumping back into the chair with a groan. Taking another sip of the drink, she p`ut it down and started to massage her temples.

Considering they had returned to the hotel half past three, he imagined she must have quite the headache, so he pulled out a little vial from his coat pocket. Granger cocked her head a little to the side when he pushed it towards her.

"Hangover cure," he explained. "But it doubles well as headache relief."

Hermione grabbed it just as eagerly as she had the coffee. "That much of a drinker, huh," she joked, pouring the contents of the vial into her coffee. "Keep a steady supply of this?"

"How else do you think I managed to survive through years of working with muggles? Copious amounts of alcohol," he drawled, tapping his forehead with a finger, as if to signify his own brilliance, drawing a snort from the witch.

There was a short pause while Granger contently sipped on the drink, and then he asked, "Does this happen often? That you can't sleep?"

She shrugged. "It's better at home. But outside of it… yeah. Can't seem to… close my eyes." The last part came out sounding a little lost, like her thoughts were suddenly distant.

He didn't quite know what to respond to that, so he cleared his throat awkwardly and then opted for silence instead. It weighed heavily, and he found himself fidgeting slightly in tact with the ticking of the clock - the same one that had interrupted their almost kiss. Another topic they needed to discuss.

"About yesterday–" he began, but Hermione cut him off instantly. "Does it look like I'm ready to talk about that?" she asked, pointedly grasping several locks of hair in her hand. They rippled in response, trying to break free, increasing the resemblance with a snake's nest.

He couldn't help but comment, "Your hair, Granger, has always had a life of its own."

"Don't I know it." The phrase came as a mix of morbid amusement, irritation and exasperation. "Part of my magic, I suppose."

"And personality," he pointed out. "It's stubborn – just like you."

Hermione gave him a lopsided grin as she reached for the breakfast box. Her hand paused indecisively above it before snatching up a tartine.

"What's the plan today then?"

"Monsieur Lemmen," Hermione told him while taking a delicate bite from the cheese-covered pastry. "A respected scholar in his field; I would have certainly visited him on my previous hunt."

She had already mentioned him once already – yesterday. The original plan had been to see him first and then go to the morgue, but certain distractions had gotten in the way. Like Granger chasing him halfway around the hotel.

"You think he'll remember you?" he asked, putting the image of the fuming Gryffindor out of his head.

Hermione polished off the rest of the tartine before answering. Draco, Slytherin to the core, recognized it for what it was – a stalling tactic.

"It's possible," she finally admitted, dusting the crumbs off her hands. "Something we'll deal with if he does."

That sounded ominously vague. Recalling how she had dealt with the muggle guard last night, Draco couldn't help but think it was on purpose. Hermione didn't give him much time to ponder such ideas, however.

"We'll talk in a bit," she said, rising and dabbing her lips with a napkin. "Thank you for the coffee - that was a lifesaver, but right now I need a good shower and– Oh, Lord."

Hermione had frozen in front of a mirror, her shocked reflection staring back at her.

"I knew it was bad, but this…" she groaned and promptly ran him out of the room, threatening all sorts of deadly repercussions should he ever divulge to anyone that he had seen her in such a state.

Draco had enough brains not to argue. He retreated back to his own suite and spent the next hour practicing all sorts of spells and incantations. He tried to avoid stressing his reserves, sticking to minor charms, but it just wasn't enough. Again, it was like a rabid hunger deep inside of him that refused to be sated. He was in the middle of a spell when Granger barged in, knocking him out of his reverie.

"Playing with your wand, Draco?" she goaded, a sharp contrast to the pale zombie of just an hour ago. The rebellion on her head had been subdued, hair clasped back with a peachy barrette. She smelled fresh from a recent shower, with the subtle traces of a scent he had begun to associate solely with her – aster and foxberries. He felt the urge to use magic quell at her entrance.

"Oh, I'm sorry, did you want to watch?" he responded with a sassy smirk, unfazed by the cheekiness, and was rewarded with the sight of her blushing crimson. Choosing to ignore his provocative comment, Hermione slid down into one of the armchairs facing the balcony doors, crossing her feet at the ankles. The sun was at its zenith, and its rays framed the outline of her face in a brilliant glow. When she turned sideways towards him, however, half of it dipped into shadow, the dark and the light playing a wicked game of chase across the contours of her visage.

She looked like innocence and sin.

Draco felt an odd tightness grip his chest. Schooling his own face to reflect none of the turmoil within, he sat down across from her, putting away his wand and preparing for a potentially awkward conversation.

Neither knew where to start, it seemed. He noticed her gnawing on her lip before realizing that he had crossed and uncrossed his legs a total of three times. This room had a different clock, but it ticked the same. Tick. Tick. Tick.

A party of guests walked by the hallway door, conversation muted. Tick. Tick.

He cleared his throat. She looked away. He drummed his fingers against the soft material of the armrests.

Tick. And...

"I like you."

There. He blurted it out. And now was the time to squeeze his eyes shut and pretend he was somewhere else. Maybe in Ireland. This was the epitome of embarrassing, and Malfoys did not do embarrassing. Ever. What was she thinking now? Would she laugh? He didn't think so, but in these situations one always assumes the worst.

"Well, I know that."

Draco's eyes snapped open. She had snorted, voice full of amusement and… something else. Something akin to the age-old wisdom that grants a woman her power over the opposite sex; the same power that tempted the first man to taste a piece of the forbidden fruit.

"You almost kissed me yesterday, that's why we're here in the first place. So, tell me something I don't know."

Saucy little minx. The kiss hadn't been one-sided; she had made no moves to flee! Two could play at this game, even if it did require a slight risk on his part. "Ok then," he boldly stated, feeling suddenly courageous, "You want to continue what we started."

This drew an even louder snort from the Gryffindor witch. Her eyes danced with mirth as she gazed upon his newfound grumpy expression until he grew irritated and threw up his hands in a symbol of defeat. This just caused her break out in a laugh, breaking the spine of his courage.

"Whatever," he snarled, a redness creeping up his skin, accompanying a vulnerable feeling of self-consciousness. Maybe he'd misread her, after all; maybe she imagined this as some hilarious joke: forcing the pureblood bully of her childhood to admit he had feelings for her. When they were done with this mission, she'd probably share this moment with the Weasel, and they'd both have a good, deep guffaw at his expense down at the pub. Disgusted, he threw his body forward, intent on leaving this room as well as his humiliation behind. He avoided even passing a glance at the bushy-haired witch, confident that he'd just see ridicule and derision in her gaze. Bringing low the Slytherin scion, son of a noble house. Working with her would be impossible, but he'd manage. Just as he'd persevered in the crucible of muggle torment. Fuming, he stomped over to the door, about to make his escape, when he felt a soft touch on his back.

"Draco."

He froze, stilled by the tentative touch. His adam's apple bobbed up and down; he didn't want to turn to face her, afraid of what he might see.

"Don't run, please." It was the way she said it – open and pleading – that gave him the courage to do as she asked. As cautiously as a rabbit in an open field, he turned. She didn't move her hand, and it was still there, extended, palm on his chest now, bridging the divide between them.

One glance at her was all it took to realize what an idiot he was. He'd imagined a bunch of nonsense, got lost in his own head. She wasn't the gloating type, nor did she derive pleasure from demeaning others.

He felt ashamed at that moment then. At his cowardice that made him so willing to jump to conclusions.

"Why are you running?" Her voice betrayed a sudden hurt. "Did you think I was laughing at you? Because I wasn't. I wasn't trying to be callous."

"No, well… yes," he stammered, avoiding her searching gaze. "I'm sorry. I… I've already told you: I'm not good at this. I don't–"

"Neither am I. Come on, come… back. Sit."

He found himself back in same position, facing her, just now sheepishly red-faced. How many times would he fuck up in his life? Her next words interrupted his self-flagellating inner monologue.

"As I've said," Hermione stated, drawing herself up in the chair. "I wasn't laughing at you. Well, you just… you said 'I like you', which sounds so adolescent, although it was very sweet, and then scrunched up your face like you were waiting for me to… to hit or something! I just laughed, because it reminded me of school, and it was funny. I'm sorry."

Great. Now she was acting contrite.

"Don't apologize, Granger," he bit out. "I shouldn't have ran." He took a deep breath, because he wanted to be honest with this woman. "I just reacted the way I did because I was… nervous, I guess. I don't really know how to act, because I've never been in… well… any kind of real–"

"Relationship?" A rueful smile tugged at the edges of her lips when he shook his head in agreement, squirming a little. "Me neither."

He couldn't contain his surprise at that bit of news. "What? I thought you and the We– Weasley, I mean, I thought you two were-"

She cut him off with a swipe of her hand, "No. He wanted to, but I… I wasn't ready at the time." He noticed her gaze wavered at these words; she was looking somewhere far off.

"And later? You're what? 21? And you've never been involved with anyone?"

Pursing her lips, she pointed out, "By your own admission, neither have you."

"But I was stuck working in that abysmal muggle shack all the time! I couldn't even get a single day off, not that most witches would look upon my past with a yearning."

"Most witches don't know you. And I had work too. There were so many things to do after the war, I simply couldn't justify wasting my time on personal… flings."

He had a distinct feeling she was lying, but decided not to push the issue. "Ok then," he concluded with amiableness, "so both of us are new to this… thing between us."

"Look, Draco," she said, primly folding her hands on her knees. "I like you too; more importantly, I feel safe with you. Yesterday… I was part of that moment, a willing contributor. Had we kissed… I don't know what would have happened, but right now, we have a job to do, and we can't afford any distractions. Let's focus on that."

Draco shifted and was about to argue when she continued, "I'm not saying we forget anything, but… let's not force things."

"Not force things," he repeated slowly, as if tasting the words in his mouth. She looked expectantly at him, waiting for his answer. He thought she was holding her breath, and, for some reason, his vision focused on her lips, as red as coral. He didn't have the heart to deny her. Not after she admitted to having feelings too! She said she felt safe with him! It was only the fact that he was a Malfoy that kept him from jumping up with joy and doing a little happy dance. Malfoys behaved with dignity, it was known, and thus he tried to reply with as much as he could muster.

"I can do that." She brightened instantly at his reply, cheeks dimpling in a lovely smile, lighting up the room like the brightest lumos.

"Then let's get going," she said. "We have a virus to cure."

Hi!