"Minions? Is that how you see my friends?"
"Crabbe and Goyle worship you," she reminded him. "Yet you mistreat them all the time, insulting them and getting them into trouble. That's not what a friend does."
Now she was treading into territory best left alone.
"You know nothing of Slytherin politics, Granger. My house isn't like your touchy-feely, hearts-and-rainbows one where everyone holds hands and sings songs together. What I have always done to Crabbe and Goyle was so I could protect them. They're too dim-witted and just vindictive enough not to end up on the wrong side of the law someday. I kick them around to keep them in line, but give them a place of importance so they don't feel like common whipping dogs either. The first few years, just the protection of being associated with me, with my name and my father's reputation, also kept them from ending up some seventh-year's bitch in the men's showers late one night. And yes, Granger, that kind of thing happens—more frequently then you probably ever assumed," he replied to her gasp of disbelief. "Don't be so naïve."
He glanced at her with a deep frown, having thought her more sophisticated than this and disappointed to find that she wasn't.
"Basically, I keep my friends safe in a hierarchy they can fit comfortably within, so no one will take advantage of them and so they'll stay out of serious trouble," he reiterated. "In return, they do me favors and accept my authority." He sneered at her now, irate that they'd even had to go here at all. Slytherin's house dynamics were a private affair, and he hated airing their dirty laundry to outsiders. "But then, I don't suppose you'd understand that type of power structure, seeing as how you come from the 'hippy flowers and sunshine' house."
She was silent a moment, contemplating all he'd laid at her feet.
"You know, I never thought of it that way before. It's the law of the jungle in Slytherin, then: to kill or be killed?" She shook her head, her riot of long curls shifting down her back. "How very sad for you all."
Ire crept into his belly, ruining his mood. "Judging my house again? How sanctimonious you are, Granger! But then, it's common for Gryffindors to be so arrogant…and woefully unsophisticated
about how the world really works!"
"Cynic," she accused.
"Idealist," he threw back.
They both sighed. This was clearly not something they were going to come to agreement to anytime soon, if ever.
"Next," he growled, hating this game all ready. This wasn't turning out to be nearly as much fun as he'd hoped.
She was silent a bit longer, and he could sense a cautious tension in her. "Well," she began, and from his peripheral vision, he spied her nervous twitching, as if she wasn't comfortable admitting what was going to come out of her mouth next, "another positive trait is that you're…well, a rather handsome specimen." Draco's battered ego picked itself up off the floor and crawled back up his spine.
Now this they could work with!
"Do go on," he encouraged her. "Enlighten me as to why you feel that way."
Clearing her throat primly behind a hand, he watched her attempt, and spectacularly fail, to remain detached this time. "Well, you do have rather classical features that provide a nice juxtaposition of the best traits in a man: a rounded jaw that is just square enough at the edge, a straight, aristocratic nose, your eyes are set at an equal distance apart and are a lovely shade of silvery-grey, your brows and lashes are a soft dark gold and give you just a tad of roguish shape, and your lips-" She paused, pinking now at the cheeks, as if her confession of his physical attractiveness was beginning to affect her, too. "-are a nice shade of rose and never chapped. Your teeth are a sparkling white, and they're straight and even. Your skin is a tad too pale, but for some reason, it doesn't detract, instead highlighting your other colorful attributes. And you're always clean-shaven, showing you care for your appearance very much, which is an appealing habit."
He sat up into a sitting position, encouraged by the fact that she'd taken that much effort to pay attention to his face, especially his lips. "And?" he prompted her to continue, wondering just how far her assessment of his outward characteristics went.
She wiggled in her seat, clearly uncomfortable laying her feelings so bare, but her determination not to lose this challenge was going to force her to continue nonetheless. "Well, your hair is a lovely shade of pale gold-white, a very light champagne colour, and the way you style it makes you appear aloof, and yet impish. The cut perfectly frames your face. Your ears lay just the right distance from your skull, not sticking out, and the lobes are detached and small."
She began fanning a hand in front of her face, as if to cool off her rising temperature. Truthfully, Draco could have used a fan then, too, for he was becoming mighty aroused by the fact that she'd observed him this well. Did the fact that she knew this much about him mean more than her simply assessing an enemy? She was being awfully thorough…
"Your shoulders are clearly well-defined," she continued, even as her face flushed a darker crimson. "I can see how adequately you are muscled in that shirt and how fine you're cut. It's rather eye-catching. You're not too bulky, but lean and sleek, like a good Quidditch Seeker should be."
"That all?" he asked, setting his wand down at his side.
Hermione turned towards him on the bed then, and opened her mouth to castigate him…but the words suddenly died on her lips as he slowly folded his hands across his belly to wait her out. The way she glanced down at them, it was as if she drawn to them against her will, and in a soft, quixotic voice, she said, "No, not quite. Your hands…they're well-manicured, strong, with long fingers just made to please-" She broke off as if the thought she almost gave voice to was too embarrassing to speak aloud. Quickly looking away again, she shifted and turned her back to him once more. "They seem made for playing the piano or composing long drafts for publication, I meant. That sort of thing." Well, well, he thought, feeling his lips curl with the Devil's wickedness.
Some girls, he knew, judged a man's attractiveness primarily upon his eyes, others by the measurement of his biceps, and still others looked towards the curve of his arse. Granger was a hand and mouth girl, it seemed.
He sat up and scooted closer to his partner, holding his hands out in front of him, where he knew she would see them. He pretended to evaluate them. "Now that's a part of me I've never considered before…but I can see, you're quite right, Granger. I suppose my fingers would be perfect for gripping and smoothing over a hard, stiff object or for stroking and gliding across playable surfaces with intense accuracy. I bet I could definitely make things hum and sing for me with them, too."
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