She's able to fluster him quite a lot. Hermione is so enthralled by the feeling of this that she's tempted to try it with other partners in other classes. She's often left on her own when Harry and Ron partner up, after all. But she feels a strange mix of not wanting to fluster anyone but Malfoy, and not wanting people to think she's trying to fluster any male class partner she has.
Malfoy, in turn, seems frustrated by it. At the same time, he doesn't avoid her. He meets her for every work or revision session, does an excellent job on their joint Potions/Herbology project, and even partners with her in Runes, too.
Hermione tries not to read anything into this.
In the meantime, she's frustrated for different reasons. Her unsuccessful third attempt over the holiday break only showed her what could be possible - she hopes. She's antsy, anxious. Frustrated. She wants... something. Something more than what she got. Something more than snogging and hands, something she's had a little of but never enough to be truly tempting.
Never enough to drive the boiling heat inside her at night sometimes. Sometimes in the morning. There must be something better to be found, or else her body wouldn't be reacting this way.
As February turns into March, she realises the hands she imagines, the hands she dreams of, might be Malfoy's. That when she wakes in the morning, aggravated and unsatisfied, it was his ice blue eyes tormenting her instead of the other way around.
Soon, she tells herself. Soon, it'll be summer and she can find someone to shag her. Something no one else will know about. No gossip, no whispers. Soon.
She tries to do it herself, but it's just as frustrating as that night on the couch with Lucas.
By mid-March, she wants to scream.
Another week goes by. They turn in their Potions/Herbology project to top marks. Slughorn, with an obnoxious wink at Malfoy, suggests they partner on the next project too, and he accepts without a glance in her direction.
She tries to detect any hint of reluctance but can't. He just... took the offer.
What if she'd said no? But she hadn't.
He's starting to look thin again, more like he did at the end of last term. Hermione attempts to ignore it but she can't help it. It worries her. A little.
Another thing she can't help but notice: he's not dating Pansy. He's not dating anyone, as far as she can tell, and it's not for lack of trying on the part of the Hogwarts' female population.
He seems stressed. Stressed and distant, focussing on academics as an easy win. Or maybe she's just starting to fixate, now.
His fingers manipulate a quill with a complex series of Runes and she can't stop watching them move. What would they feel like on her?
Maybe he hates muggleborns, but he doesn't seem like he hates Hermione. Not like he once did. He heckles her, teases her, but it's not malicious like it once seemed.
She starts to wonder... she's been distracted from the impending war, from Harry's lessons with Dumbledore, but they're all still happening. She's begun to wonder if maybe her own mounting stress and her ability to shove it to the side... if maybe he's feeling something similar. As if something bigger than himself is happening.
Feelings like this both increase her desperation and quell it immediately. What right does she have to personal desires in the face of what's coming?
But what else does she have? She can only control a few tiny things. This could be one of them.
He's watching her again, like he does when he thinks she's not paying attention. She shifts her weight, letting her hair fall over one shoulder, and she ruffles it with the other hand. It's an absent gesture, as if she's thinking deeply about her parchment, but she isn't.
His attention is deeply validating. She can't deny it. It irritates her, a lot, that she feels like this. But if she removes any history from the pair of them, any prior subtext at all - he's incredibly sexy. This year, he's been courteous, if distant. He's intelligent and helpful. He's got great hair, better shoulders, and a Quidditch physique she'd never admit to fantasising about after all her general Quidditch protestations.
So take away everything else, and yes - she's wildly attracted to him. Someone as sexy as he is finds her sexy, and yes - it's gratifying. It makes her feel sexier. It's a positive cycle that she can't ignore.
By the end of March, she's made up her mind. Their latest project is due the following week. If things go poorly, they just won't partner together again. Any animosity will be easily explained.
And she can't think straight any longer. She practically salivates looking at him. Sometimes she thinks there's no way he hasn't noticed - but if he had, surely he'd be teasing her about it. And he isn't.
In fact, he's staring at her again, his eyes boring into hers. She swallows hard and wonders if he can hear the way her heart speeds up. He fingers his quill and her eyes flicker down to it, as they always do. She adjusts her skirt over her knees, and his eyes dart to her hemline, as they always do.
Bugger.
She's never tried to do this without a solid buzz. The sum total of her experience picking up men - or letting men try to pick up her - has been in pubs after pints of ale. Also, those were all men she didn't know and would never know again. Who gave a toss if Hermione embarrassed herself? Well, she did, a little. But not like this.
She backs out. It's not as if she has anything to prove to anyone. No one knows she's even thinking this. She meets him for another project revision, only halfway planning to approach him. He does the bulk of the work on the Runes while Hermione's mind turns over the options, the consequences.
"What's going on, Granger?"
She snaps out of it. "Nothing."
"No need to get touchy about it," he arches an eyebrow. "You're usually more concerned about these things, that's all."
She's concerned, alright, but not about their Runes work.
After another half hour of mental torture, she makes a decision. Maybe this is just like her three times at the pub - she has to get used to it, to the possibilities. She can do this. "Should we meet Friday evening?"
Friday is a party in the Slytherin common room. She heard Pansy talking about it to Theo. Malfoy has not seemed interested in social interactions, but he proves it when he readily agrees.
Turns out she's paying more attention to the Slytherin social happenings than the Gryffindor ones. Gryffindor is also having a party Friday night, and Hermione takes an opportunistic moment to snatch a 1/4 bottle of firewhisky off Lavender's side table while she and Parvati get ready. The burning liquor does bolster her nerves and her courage, and she takes another strong swig before making her way back to the library.
Malfoy's eyebrows shoot up when he sees her. "Hitting the liquor already? You could have stayed there for the party, if you'd liked. You didn't have to bring it here."
"Didn't I?" she fires back, tipping the bottle up. It's nearly gone, not that there was much in it to start with, and he snatches it from her.
"Share, at least." He finishes the last swallow of it and clunks the empty bottle onto the table. He takes a moment to study her while she rummages through her satchel for her notes.
"I could get us more," he said finally, "if you want more. It is Friday night."
She both wants more and doesn't want more, and wrinkles her nose in debate. Malfoy makes the choice for her. "Never mind. What's going on?"
Hermione gives him a flat look.
"Something's going on," he insists. "You've never showed up toting liquor before."
This isn't exactly a genius observation but it still irritates her. She still doesn't know how to broach the topic and hops up to sit on the table, instead. She crosses her legs at the ankles and gains courage from how his eyes follow them.
There's really no appropriate preamble, she decides. She's been trying and trying to come up with something and flings it to the wind.
"I would like more firewhisky, if you please."
That's not what she intended to say and he muffles a snort. "Alright. Wait here, then."
And he leaves.
She's left sitting on the library table, in the dim light. Not a soul is around and she wonders if he's going to waltz into the Slytherin common room to pilfer a bottle and walk out without explanation. Or will he explain? Surely not. He'll cobble together something random. Maybe he has some in his trunk in his dorm, instead. Maybe he'll summon it from Hogsmeade. Maybe she shouldn't have done this at all. Maybe she's a total lunatic, maybe he'll think she's a complete slag, maybe -
"Here." He hands her a bottle. It's aged twenty-five years and she squints at the label.
"Is this what you always drink?" She's referring to the Slytherins as a whole, but he shrugs, a little embarrassed.
Well, if he's slightly off-balance, too, she won't waste it. She pulls the cork out with her teeth - not missing the way he presses his lips together - and swigs from it. Before he can admonish her for not using something civilised like a crystal glass or goblet instead, she forces herself out with it.
"Will you shag me?"
It's a good thing she has the bottle, because she thinks he might have choked on it. As it is, he seems to swallow the wrong way and doubles over, hand to his chest as he coughs.
"Excuse me? You want me to... shag you?"
Too late to take it back now. She takes another swallow. "Yes."
"...Why?"
She blinks at him. "Do you care?"
Now he blinks, taking a minute to process. "...No, I suppose not. As long as it's not some gambit to get me on my back and kill me."
Her brain is starting to feel a little fuzzy and she tilts her head at the image on him on his back, her on top of him. There's no threatening of his life in her imaginings, but her hesitation makes him step into her.
He parts her knees and settles himself between her thighs. Her breath catches as heat floods down her body.
"If you are planning to kill me," he says into her ear, and shivers ripple down her spine, "don't make it too soon."
"Does that mean you will?"
He nods and he's so close to her that his nose moves her hair. She shivers again. "If you really mean it, yes. But not tonight. Not after you show up with an almost-empty bottle of firewhisky. If you mean it, come back tomorrow night. I want to know why you want to."
"Are you digging for compliments, Malfoy?" she manages, trying to keep her heartbeat from running away with the rest of her.
She can feel him smirk, his cheek scrunching as he presses it into her neck. She's having a hard time thinking clearly. "Not really, no. I don't need very many reasons. But this is out of character and I need something more than 'I was drunk last night, Draco.'"
"I'd never say that." Hermione smiles as he stiffens slightly, gaining her bravery. "I'd never call you 'Draco.'"
His entire argument was that she shouldn't be drunk the next night. She hadn't been drunk that night, but he hadn't known for sure, and she had needed the liquid courage. Unfortunately, she really needs it tonight, too.
No, she doesn't, she chastises herself. He's interested. Obviously. She made the proposition already. She's just nervous. She can't remember being this nervous. How do people do this, expose themselves in this way? It's a vulnerability she never imagined, and this is why it should be a stranger. This is a mistake, it's a mistake, she shouldn't have done it.
But her feet carry her to the library anyway. She has no idea what's on her face but Malfoy freezes at the sight of her. He tries to mask it.
"So is this a 'yes' or a 'no,' Granger?"
As if it was his idea. The absurdity of this helps, in a strange way. It clears her mind.
"It's - it's a 'yes.' I do want to. I'm just... nervous."
He considers this. His eyes scrutinise her so closely she thinks she might die of embarrassment. They're both silent for several long moments, and Hermione wishes she could disappear into the floor.
When he touches her hand, she jumps and realises she'd closed her eyes against his intense gaze. He doesn't hold her hand, though. He just tugs her towards him, where he's leaning against the same table she was sitting on the night before. Her heart's been racing but it picks up a new urgency as he pulls her between his knees.
He doesn't touch her skin. His fingers lightly clasp the fabric of her skirt, right at her hips. Her eyes skate across his face and he looks like he wants to ask several things, but what comes out is, "Why are you so nervous?"
This is both the most obvious thing to ask and has the most obvious answer, and yet she still can't say it. She can't say, "I've never had sex."
He seems to intuit it, anyway, and she thinks she might die of relief. He takes another moment before forming his next question, and she's beginning to think this is just as hard for him as it is for her.
"Why me?"
She does owe him an answer here, and she knows it. But how to say it? It still doesn't come out how she thought it would. "The... war is coming. I thought I should... before the war. And I don't want it to be a friend, I don't want people to talk, I don't want to ruin friendships. I just -"
She can't finish but it doesn't seem like she needs to. Malfoy is looking off, over her shoulder. Finally, he says, "That eliminates plenty of people, but it doesn't explain why me."
She scoffs out a light laugh. "Now you are digging for compliments. Why did you say yes?"
He gives her a ghost of a smirk. "Not many men will say 'no,' Granger. Why, have you had people say no?"
She blushes ferociously. "No, not exactly. I - I tried with someone over the Christmas holidays, but -"
Malfoy leans back and she feels the heat of his confused scrutiny. "You - wait. Who?"
"No one," she tries to wave this away. "It didn't - well, we didn't. That's all."
She can tell he has more questions. Probably a lot more. "Maybe I shouldn't ask, but at what point..."
Hermione closes her eyes again in mortification before reminding herself she has nothing to be embarrassed about. "I mean... we did. Sort of."
"'Sort of'?" he repeats incredulously, his eyebrows disappearing beneath his hairline.
Growing defensive, she says, "I don't think 'sort of' counts, so no. Not really."
"Alright." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "You're right. 'Sort of' does not count. And you're being evasive enough that I'm starting to feel bad for asking, but you're also making me think you didn't do anything else."
Her silence says everything. She won't dignify it with details.
"Have you done anything else?"
Silence.
"...You came here right for shagging?"
Silence. She's debating leaving, but the hand not covering his eyes still has a solid clasp of her skirt between his fingers.
"Alright," he says again, at last. "Well, I won't shag you tonight, either. And anyway -" He breaks off at her offended expression. "What, Granger? Did you think I was going to shag you right here in the library? Flat on the floor, or maybe on this table?"
To be perfectly honest, she hadn't really thought it through. His bewildered expression seals it and her combative irritation gets the better of her.
"You told me to show back up tonight if I was serious. Here I am, and you still won't do it? Why invite me back here at all?"
He stares at her as if she's suddenly turned purple. Her face heats up again. "This was a bad idea. Never mind." She tries to pull away but the hand holding her skirt changes to grip her hip instead. She gasps and his spare hand slips behind her neck.
He tilts her head back while he pulls her into him, and his lips land on hers. They're both soft and firm at once, deliberate and exploring. His hand cups her cheek, his thumb skating up and down her skin. The tips of his fingers are tangling into her hair and she shudders into him. Her mouth opens and he groans against her, a ghost of a sound as his tongue traces her lower lip.
The fingers of his other hand tighten on her hip beneath the fabric of her skirt and she presses into him automatically. His thighs tighten around her and she feels something hard at her side. She sucks in a breath, feeling dizzy, and he winds his other hand behind her head.
As she tries to regain her breath, he moves her hair to the side and kisses down her neck. She leans her head to the side to give him better room, and he murmurs something into her skin. Her thighs tighten on reflex and he gently takes her earlobe between his lips.
"Has anyone ever snogged you like this?"
Gods, no. Viktor snogged her two years ago, but it was nothing like this. Nothing like the fire that's flicking up her body now, lighting her aflame from the inside out.
She hasn't answered, not verbally, but he takes her hands and places them on his chest. He covers them with his own and she feels his heartbeat, his muscles under his shirt. His legs keep her clasped to him, tucked firmly between his thighs, and when she makes no motions to remove her hands from his body he puts his own back in her hair. She finds she loves the feeling of them there, the vindication that her hair can be sexy.
His teeth tug lightly on her lower lip and she opens her mouth again, giving his tongue access. She meets him there and nips his lip the same way he'd done to hers. He groans into her mouth again and moves his mouth back to her ear.
"This is why I won't shag you tonight. There's a lot that should come first. Do you trust me?"
What an odd question, she realises. She must. Harry doesn't. Ron doesn't. But thinking about Harry or Ron right now feels wrong, distinctly wrong. Somehow here she is, trusting Malfoy not to say anything, trusting him to... what? Not just shag her but show her how to shag?
She nods, her hands forming fists in his shirt. She's pulling his mouth back to hers without even realising what she's doing, and she feels the hardness against her side again.
His breath hitches a little and he slips a hand down her back instead. He clutches her to him, pressing her against his chest. Her hands are some somewhat squashed and she releases her fists, letting them slip up his body. She winds one around his neck and he quivers slightly, nipping her lip again.
She lets her nails scrape the skin at the base of his hairline, and his mouth opens. She slips her tongue in and he tightens her against him. She can feel every centimetre of him. It seems there's no part of her not touching some part of him. But that can't be right; her feet are still on the floor. It's only her mind that's whirling with the sensations of this, the desperation and need, the desire.
It feels like four minutes and four hours before he finally breaks them apart, breathing hard. His eyes are closed as he dips his forehead to hers. "You should go back to your dorm."
Blinking twice, she can only manage, "What if I don't want to?"
Malfoy coughs out a small laugh. "Given what you asked me for, this is going to move fast enough. Meet me tomorrow night at the Come and Go Room. I want to hear about your 'sort of.'