This wasn't working.
Hermione curses everything as she yanks her jumper over her head. She isn't sure what she's most annoyed about: the failure tonight turned out to be, how stupid she feels for even trying it, that she's still slightly buzzed and hates the sensation, or that she just put this stupid jumper back on backwards. She seethes, fully aware that her frustration is out of proportion. This shouldn't make her this mad.
Like a child, she pulls her arms back in the sleeves and twists it around to the front. Shoving her arms back through, she grabs her wand and tucks it into her back pocket. Hermione casts a glance over her shoulder as she walks towards the exit, not even bothering to be quiet.
He's still asleep on the couch. Passed out, her mind helpfully corrects her.
Hermione slips around to the back of the little flat in the dark, wraith-like. Buzzed or not, she knows she needs the privacy to apparate. She's just glad she can this time, rather than arriving here in the car she had earlier. The man's car. She's only in a car a few times a year, now, and she's never been in one drunk. It wasn't pleasant.
On the couch with him earlier, she'd had the spins. She was on her back and the room wouldn't stop moving. It made her feel sick, one of several signs that the night wasn't going to happen as she'd intended. She'd still held out some slim hope, though. For a while.
And they'd done... something. She had full recollection; she hadn't been so drunk she couldn't remember. She'd done what she set out to do - sort of.
She wasn't sure he had, though. What had his name been? Lucas? Didn't matter. Not now.
What a waste of a night. She lands back on her own street in Hampstead and sneaks back upstairs to her room. Her parents are fast asleep, never knowing she'd been gone. She knew if they did know, her dad would have waited up for her to get home, no matter what time it was. He wouldn't have been able to help it. But all the lights are off. They're asleep, so she'd managed to get out and back in successfully.
At least something had gone right.
It can't be Ron.
She'd tried to talk herself into that for a while - a long while, in fact. She'd fancied Ron. She still had, up until he began dating Lavender. But before that, their flirtation had been so innocent. Somehow, seeing him with Lavender had done several things at once: she realised this was no longer the time for chaste fancying of old friends. She realised that she didn't really want to be Lavender, in the situation. Whenever she saw Ron and Lavender together, tangled in chairs and swapping spit, it didn't seem... appetising. Maybe she didn't fancy Ron anymore, after all, or maybe she just didn't think what they were doing looked like much fun.
But even if Lavender had never come into the equation at all, Hermione knew it couldn't be Ron. She's nothing if not pragmatic, and she knows - it's a hunch, a deep instinct in her bones - that the three of them will be separating from the rest of the pack soon. The war is coming. She and Harry and Ron are the only three who will be tackling... certain parts of it. Hermione doesn't know what that will look like quite yet, but the knowledge is practically vibrating within her.
No, even if Ron weren't with Lavender, she couldn't risk throwing off their dynamic of three over something like this.
Things are coming to a head. Sooner or later, everything will change. Their very lives will be on the line and the stress is about to eat her alive.
Not knowing when is making things worse.
Hermione feels like every day, every hour, is a battle with her emotions. Everything inside her feels volatile. She feels the same roiling teenage emotions she'd have had if she were a normal teenager, on top of the impending war, on top of her... insane frustrations at feeling like she's being left out.
Harry and Ron. Ron and Lavender. Harry and Ginny, which Hermione sees in Harry's eyes every time he looks at Ron's little sister.
And then, there's her. The bookish one, the planner, the one who takes care of the others.
When was the last time she did something for herself?
She really thought she'd be able to get it done without much fanfare over the holiday break. It can't be that difficult. Everybody else seems to manage, if they try hard enough.
Hermione knows she's not... traditionally pretty. She's not tall and slender with silky hair men can run their hands through. Her tone is usually annoyed, not flirtatious, and she doesn't know how to bat her eyelashes. She doesn't even know how to make herself seem prettier with makeup. She's never cared; never seen the use.
She is what she is. The right person won't care. The right person will be attracted to her for the qualities she does have.
She'd always been determined to wait for that person. She doesn't need to settle, not when it comes to her own happiness.
This is different, though. This isn't about happiness. It's about... well, it's about checking a box.
Ironically, Hermione thinks she might be the first of her friends to check this box - provided she can actually do it, that is. Whatever happened tonight doesn't count. She won't let it count, and it's her decision whether or not it does.
No, the 'muggle in a bar' idea didn't work. Well, it sort of did. But that can't be what it's supposed to be like. No way was that what all the fuss is about.
Hermione had tried twice before this and lost her nerve. Once she'd excluded Ron from the running over last term, the Christmas holidays at home seemed like the best chance. No one would even have to know - no one but her, and she's the only one who matters.
Aside from the fact that she might die in the next year or two (and she doesn't want to die with her virginity), Hermione is aware that if she is captured during the war, things might go badly for her. She's not stupid. She knows what happens to female prisoners. And if that's how she loses her virginity... well, she won't let it happen like that.
But she has to go back to Hogwarts to finish her sixth year in three days. Three days left; three attempts over this break. Three failures.
The first two had been her own baulking. The first time she'd tried, she'd felt so completely out of her element that she chalked it up to an educational experience. She had things to learn about how to do this, and expecting to get it done the first time was probably unrealistic.
She'd sat at the bar, nursing a pint of ale. Just being there alone meant she got a certain amount of attention, and Hermione had been choosy. That had been validating, even if she knew it was simply that she was there and seemed available. It still gave her confidence a much-needed boost.
Hermione narrowed things down to a fit university lad and she'd thought things were progressing well. He didn't seem put off by their four-year age gap. He was drinking quickly and Hermione held herself to one drink for every three of his. Even so, he was interested, even without any flirting on her part. She'd tried but it felt awkward - not like herself at all.
But then his mates had shown up. He'd blown them off to stay with her - also validating - but she couldn't get past the winks, glances, comments just out of her own earshot among their group table. She felt like they were watching his progress with her, gauging it, judging it. It shouldn't have mattered. She didn't know any of them, but she got self-conscious feeling like she had an audience. She left.
The second time, she chose a different pub. Otherwise she kept the same roadmap. It had worked well enough last time, and it did this time, too - except this was a weeknight and the crowd was a lot thinner. Her choices were slim. She was almost finished with her second pint when a decent candidate finally presented himself.
Having something of a head start, Hermione tried to pace herself better as he got them both a round. But she was more nervous this time. The prospect seemed more tangible somehow, like she was closer to actually doing it. After three pints, she'd just about gained the courage.
She thought he was about to ask her to leave with him and she had a sudden flash of freezing panic. He was older than the university football player. He wasn't as cute and Hermione had to admit she wasn't attracted to him. Not really. He was simply the best of the lot that night and she felt like that how he must see her: as... the best of an average lot. Whatever.
She couldn't do it. Even though she was there for that exact reason, and maybe it didn't matter how attracted they were to each other, she couldn't do it. She felt like a hypocrite, judging this man who'd truly done nothing wrong. But she was starting to think maybe she did want the occasion to be something notable after all. At least, a little. With someone she at least found sexy, who might make her feel sexy.
Surely that wasn't too much to ask, was it?
So she set her sights on a third attempt - which had been tonight.
Lucas? - she'll think of him as Lucas - was probably a good enough option in the beginning. She'd gone back to the original pub on a weekend, crossing her fingers that she wouldn't see the same uni lad from her last visit. She didn't, but it did take longer to find someone she deemed cute, age-appropriate, and friendly. She'd had three drinks by the time he'd sat down, and even though he'd ordered some appetisers for them to share, she was feeling good and happy.
No nerves this time. Well, maybe a smidge, but not like before. This was the third time she'd covered this ground and the alcohol was giving her the bravery she needed to push down any remaining anxiety. She was doing this on purpose; it was important. She'd been over it and over it in her mind. She'd never see him again but he was being a perfectly fine impromptu date. And he was cute - strong jawline, good hair. Eyes that were intelligent and captured hers over their little table.
But then they'd both had another round... and then another. Hermione found she was having a good time, more than she'd expected. Maybe he was more than an adequate option. Maybe he was actually a good one. She was enjoying herself, enjoying her time with him.
Another round.
By the time they'd stumbled to a taxi, giggling and handsy, Hermione felt like a seventeen-year-old for the first time since she could recall. This is what coming of age was supposed to be, carefree nights figuring out who you are and who you want to be with. Not wars and Horcruxes, not life or death. Just having fun. When has she last had fun?
But it didn't work out that way. It all went tits up and over the next three days, Hermione's parents keep her busy. She can't argue. Along with the naggling instinct that things are about to change came a feeling that she may not have much time left with her parents. If she's killed or captured in the war... well, she needs to think more about the implications for her muggle parents. She shoves her own personal goals to the side and dedicates as much time as she had left over the break to spending time with her family.
What's more important, after all? Shagging a stranger or memories with her mum and dad? There's no contest.
And so, Hermione finds herself heading back to Hogwarts for the second half of her sixth year. She still has next summer to accomplish certain goals with muggle strangers in muggle pubs.
She hopes.
Aboard the Hogwarts Express, she's just about solidified this plan. Her roadmap had been a good one, after all. It can work. She'll finish off her sixth year and refocus on the rest over the summer. There's plenty of time, now that she knows what she needs to do. Now that she knows how to get there.
But something has changed.
It's subtle, at first.
She notices that she's noticing things, as people pass by their carriage. Neville has gotten quite tall, for instance. Seamus's accent makes his eyes sparkle, the blue flashing from a distance. Ernie's shoulders are... broad. Sexy, if she's honest with herself. Broad like Lucas's were in the pub, then in the taxi, then on his couch. Grabbable.
She finds that she's imagining them in bed, now that she knows how that might go. She's skipping snogging, in her mind, going right for the gusto.
Well, she's always been ahead of the rest, always been able to see the endgame.
Clearing her throat harshly, Hermione leaves Harry and Ron to escape to the girls' loo in the lavatory carriage. She splashes a little water on her face. She has to wait until next summer. She can't shag someone she knows, someone she's known since they were all eleven, and have it get around the school. How ridiculous.
But maybe there's a seventh-year no one knows... or doesn't know well. Maybe she should look at the upperclassmen.
No. She gives herself a harsh shake and another cold splash of water. What's gotten into her? It's only a few months until summer.
It's just that Hermione has never considered herself a sexy girl. But her few weeks back in Hampstead have given her a new perspective. Men do find her sexy - some of them, anyway. Even if it's only because she was available, it's not as if they were turning the other way. She'd had a man's hands on her for the first real time, felt the urgency in them, the desire.
She felt desirable.
She's always felt intelligent and competent. A problem-solver supreme, capable and adaptable. But never desirable and she realises she likes it.
Well, fine. She lets herself acknowledge this - a tried-and-true tactic of her stubborn brain - and then dismisses it. It's still only a few months until summer. She's simply more aware of her body, of herself as a sexual person, in a way she hasn't been before. It's new and tantalising. But she'll get her chance, and with the anonymity she craves. Not here, not at school.
She looks up at herself in the loo mirror. Does she look different? She feels different, even though that's silly.
But she is a little different and she thinks it's okay to recognise it. Over the past couple of years, her hair has grown longer and organised itself. It's nothing she did on purpose. But it looks more adult, and after Lucas's hands were in it, Hermione thinks it looks purposeful. It looks like she has it playfully mussy on purpose, not that it's just dishevelled because she's hopeless at managing it.
Maybe it could just be her look. She scrubs a hand through it now, letting it fluff wild and untamed, and finds that she kind of likes it. Looking at it this way, accepting it as a character trait of her own - not as a bane of her physical existence every day.
Feeling better, Hermione steps back out of the loo. She tosses her hair back over her shoulder with the effort of its weight and lets herself relish the feeling of it.
She straightens her skirt and wraps her tie around her neck to begin tying it before they get too close to Hogsmeade. Her fingers fumble with it absently when she bounces right off a hard chest.
"Oh! -" she coughs. "Sorry, I -"
Looking up, she finds Draco Malfoy staring down at her. His ice blue eyes narrow. "- Weren't watching where you were going? I got that."
She moves to brush by him and he doesn't move in turn. He stands there blocking the carriage corridor and she feels a flash of annoyance.
"Yes, yes, I wasn't paying attention. Sorry. Now, if you'll excuse me -" she tries to squeeze by him again, and maybe she imagines it, but he seems to hesitate a fraction of a second. She glances up and sees he's glancing down, his brow slightly furrowed.
She ducks under his arm and continues on towards her own carriage, wondering why her pulse sped up, and why it won't slow back down now that she's noticed it.
Harry and Ron both look up as she appears back in their own compartment, face still slightly flushed. Ron stares at her for a moment, blinking twice. Hermione realises her shirt is only partially buttoned, showing a fair amount of cleavage above her bra line. She'd been too busy with her tie to notice the second half of the equation wasn't yet done, and she rapidly finishes buttoning the rest.
The two of them carry on a rousing game of Exploding Snap and Hermione is grateful. Let them distract themselves - Harry, especially - in something frivolous. She thinks Harry is taking too much on these days, but there's nothing to be done for it. If he can have some silly, childish fun with Ron for even an hour, it's a good thing.
He's been so busy this year with Dumbledore's private lessons. Ron's been busy with Lavender. Hermione's been busy on her own and she enjoys the feeling of the three of them together in this little carriage, just like when they were all children. As they play, she takes out her Advanced Charms book and begins to revise, but it's almost abstract in her mind. Her mind turns over other things as she reads the Charms work and she's not sure which she focusses on more.
Malfoy looked... less stressed than he did last term, as if the few weeks off had done him a lot of good. Was that possible? She'd thought he seemed horribly miserable, for no obvious reason. Harry's convinced he's up to something devious, of course, and that's absurd.
But with Harry's fixation came one of her own. The more Harry became certain he was doing something nefarious, the more Hermione became certain he wasn't. She couldn't explain his demeanour, though, or his complexion. Increasingly pale, increasingly thin. Increasingly snappy, even though he'd always been. He seemed under a new sort of stress, and although that led credence to Harry's theory, Hermione couldn't bring herself to believe it.
But what with the physical ricochet she'd just done off his chest, Hermione has to admit he seems rather healthy now. He's quite as broad as Ernie Macmillan, quite as tall as Neville. Taller, perhaps.
He'd steadied her with one hand so she didn't stumble. She hadn't noticed at the time, but now she can recall the feeling of his strong fingers wrapped around her upper arm. Strong, lithe fingers. Long and slender.
She swallows hard. Last term, he'd spent less and less time in the library. He'd taken to wearing black suits when he wasn't in robes, as if he'd already graduated. They were perfectly cut on his frame, and they were... sexy.
These sort of thoughts are ridiculous, she admonishes herself. Harry's convinced Malfoy is a Death Eater. Hermione doesn't know about all that, but believes he'd be trying to elevate his own status. Look older and more important than his classmates. That all fits.
It fits as well as his suits do.
Hermione buries her face behind her Charms book, even though Harry and Ron couldn't be paying her less attention. She feels her face flame. So what if she... maybe thinks he's... maybe a little sexy? He is, after all. It's nothing new. Not if she lets herself admit it.
Their rivalry has been counterproductive in this way.
No, there is no way. Malfoy hates all three of them. Sure, she can think he's fit, she can imagine what he looks like under those perfectly-tailored suits, but he still hates all three of them. He's fighting for the other side in the upcoming war, and yet... yet…
The 'other side' designation is uselessly hot. Bugger. She's never thought about it this way before, the person she shouldn't have. She feels a stab of heat slither down to her stomach and settle there, and she imagines Malfoy without the suit jacket.
Without the crisp shirt under it, or maybe just unbuttoned, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His chest, if her split-second contact was any indication, is solid and muscular. Rippled, perhaps.
His white-blonde hair hanging in his eyes, deliberately rumpled like her own.
The ice-blue eyes she just saw, locked onto hers, his mouth slightly ajar. Just enough to breath in and out, his exhales moving his lower lip the tiniest bit.
"'Mione?"
She jumps, nearly spilling the Charms book onto the floor. Ron's looking up at her from the other side of the carriage.
"Want to play a hand?"
It's January. Five months until summer; nearly six. But until then, Hermione can fantasise about other things.
For the first time, she finds herself truly distracted in lessons. With her increasing confidence that the upcoming war is going to interrupt her education, she's concentrating less on her NEWTs for seventh year. For the first time, she's focussing more on what's happening right now.
Well, what will be happening over the summer, in five more months. But until then, she can imagine how it might go. How it could be with some stranger she's never met, what she'd like him to look like, or what she'd want him to do.
Last fall, she'd never had such clear imaginings. She'd had sketches of them in her mind, but she'd done so little that she really didn't know. Now, she thinks she knows just enough to want things. Certain things. With a certain type of man.
Slughorn combines a Potions assignment with Professor Sprout for Herbology. It's a partnership assignment for students taking both NEWT classes and that doesn't involve very many. Last term, Hermione was surprised that Malfoy was; he'd seemed quite disinterested but evidently his parents are making him carry onward with his studies. Once she thought about it, no matter his level of motivation, of course his father would force him into it. He's taking as many NEWT classes as she is - one of the few who is.
Harry and Ron partnered together, as she'd expected. None of Malfoy's Slytherin classmates are taking both classes, and Hermione finds herself pleasantly surprised to find herself partnered with him.
This caught her off guard, on the surface. More so when he didn't seem particularly dismayed to be with her. She's caught his fingers dancing over his cauldron more times than she cares to admit, his skillful hands working in Herbology over delicate plants. She often argues about assignment partnerships, feeling intrinsically that she'll be doing the lion's share of the work, but not this time.
They're working after hours in greenhouse four one evening the following week, preparing ingredients for the complicated potion Slughorn set. Even though it's only February, the greenhouse is steamy and Hermione feels herself beginning to perspire. She loosens her tie without thinking about it, twisting her hair over one shoulder to relieve the heat on her back.
Malfoy is staring at her oddly and she feels that stab of heat again.
"What?"
He looks annoyed that she noticed. "Nothing."
She's annoyed that he looks annoyed. "Well, it's hot in here. Let's finish up for the night, shall we?"
Clearly wanting the upper hand back, he leans against the table of potted plants. "Got big plans, Granger?" he drawls infuriatingly, and she tries not to scowl.
"Not wanting to be here longer than I have to be hardly qualifies as 'big plans.'" She'd intended this as an insult of sorts, but realises too late that it reveals something instead. Trying to regain her composure, she steps out of one Mary Jane shoe and stretches her ankle out to turn it in a circle, hoping it'll pop. It does.
Slipping her foot back into her shoe, she notices Malfoy is staring at it, mouth slightly open. It's as if his teeth are touching but his lips aren't, and she wonders what an odd distinction for her brain to make. He clears his throat.
Testing a theory on the fly, Hermione repeats the gesture with her other ankle. His eyes follow it all the way.
Hmm.
The mental processing of this is keeping her from focussing on her heartrate, which has increased to an irritating pace. Hermione leans on the table with one hand, reaching across to the quill by Malfoy's left hip. "Let me jot down this combination, and I think we're done for tonight."
He doesn't answer straight away, staring at her chest.
Openly.
Hermione realises with a flush that as she leans like this, the buttons pulling across her chest are prominent and tight. If her tie were in place, it would be a colourful balance to the white shirt, drawing the eye elsewhere automatically, but she's removed it. Her shirt is unbuttoned at the collar. It's not low, by any stretch, but it's not uniform, and his eyes are darting up and down.
She clears her throat this time and his eyes bounce back up to hers. He looks both defensive about his eye attention and defiant about not apologising for it. She bites her lip to avoid a small grin. His eyes stare at this, too.
Six weeks ago, she wouldn't have known how to read this. But now, she can. He's attracted to her. Or if not to her, to parts of her. He's staring at her chest when he can get away with it, and he seems to enjoy looking at her ankles. Or her feet, maybe. She can't quite tell. But she can tell a whole lot more than she could have before the holiday break.
Later that night, Hermione tries to break down the new revelations she's had.
Malfoy thinks she's attractive. Maybe not enough to do anything about it - certainly not - but at a physical level, he's attracted to her.
It's wildly gratifying. His type think her type are the scourge of the wizarding world. It's not stopping him from ogling her when he gets a chance, though.
Well, why not have a little fun with him over the next couple of months? She can play around with her newfound knowledge that she can be attractive, that men might find her pretty. Certain men. Certain qualities. She knows she's still not a traditional knockout, but even this tiny awareness is doing wonders. It feels like a pinnacle she never thought she'd hit - brightest witch of her age, probably. Best in the school, top in classes and exams. But this is a new mountain to summit, and she finds that she wants to.
She'll torment Malfoy, keep raising her own confidence in her body image, and look forward to the summer.
The fact that he also has some very sexy qualities is by the by. There's no way either of them would ever want to do anything about those qualities in the other. She'll just stretch her legs a little.