"How did you do it, Ginny?" Hermione asked, caught somewhere between astonishment and admiration.
She glanced over at Ron and Lavender in the corner of the common room; both of them were rosy-cheeked, chatting happily, and occasionally breaking into loud laughter together.
"Oh, it's perfectly simple," Ginny said with a mysterious air. "Boys and girls who've never been in a relationship but are curious about it are like two lumps of dough that want to rise but don't know how. All you have to do is let them catch a hint of attraction between them, then fold in a little evidence — 'she/he treats you differently from everyone else' — as the yeast. Cover it and wait. They'll expand on their own until they press together, and from there, they tentatively stick."
"That is the most painlessly effective method of fermentation I have ever heard," Hermione said. "Your endless little schemes constantly amaze me."
"Ginny Weasley's Special Love Dough!" Ginny said with a grin, stroking Crookshanks, who had rolled over to lean against her. "Well? Pay homage to your matchmaking guru."
"I bow to you, truly. But if you know so much about love, why aren't you doing anything about your own situation?" Hermione asked. "Still haven't managed to speak to Harry alone?"
"No," Ginny said, deflating.
"Can't get past the nerves?" Hermione said knowingly. She watched Ginny give a vigorous nod and smiled. "Ginny, you have to give him a chance to actually know you. That can't happen if you keep to yourself."
"I've tried, but it doesn't work. I don't want to keep forcing myself," Ginny said listlessly. "I've tried to show how I feel and done my best to make it obvious. He hasn't responded to any of it — the seasonal greetings, any of it. I suppose he simply isn't interested in me. The most direct proof is that he never even thought of inviting me to the Yule Ball."
"Didn't Ron say he'd been thinking of pairing you and Harry together before —"
"That was Ron's idea, not Harry's. Harry never mentioned it at all. They only remembered I was a girl at the last minute — someone to make up the numbers. What am I to them?" Ginny said. "And besides, I'd already promised Neville, so naturally I couldn't let him down."
"I admire that you kept your word," Hermione said.
"Some people said I was being rigid and foolish. But I can't help it — that's how I'm built. I can't bear to disappoint someone." Ginny stared at the ceiling. "Either way, Harry doesn't acknowledge me, so why should I put myself out there again and make things awkward for myself? I'm nothing like his dance partner, always laughing and joking!"
"Why do I detect a slightly sour note?" Hermione chuckled. "Ginny, I think I understand what you're really saying. You don't want to have to change yourself just to get someone's attention, do you?"
"Exactly." Ginny's gaze drifted to the dozing cat, and a hint of stubbornness crept into her voice. "I don't want to keep forcing myself. Right, Crookshanks? We're perfectly fine, just the two of us."
Crookshanks opened one eye and gave a slow, languid groan.
"Aside from the part where you're attempting to kidnap my cat, I broadly agree with your approach," Hermione said, smiling. "But I do think the personality you showed Harry in those earlier interactions wasn't quite the real you. Weren't you always performing? You cared so much about how you appeared to him that you ended up being unlike yourself whenever he was nearby."
She flipped through Practical Defensive Magic and Its Countermeasures — hoping to find some useful spells for Harry's third task preparation — and continued. "I'm not suggesting you reinvent yourself into a girl who commands the room with exaggerated laughter. Honestly, I don't think Harry would respond well to that at all. What I'm hoping is that you let him see who you actually are."
Ginny went quiet. She stopped fidgeting and began to stroke Crookshanks properly, listening as Hermione went on.
"You have to let him see that you're not only the Ginny Weasley who hero-worships him, goes pink whenever he looks at you, and loses her voice. You're also a very good, strong-willed, and brave Ginny Weasley — and that's the Ginny he's never really seen."
"Hermione, you always know how to make a person feel better," Ginny said, her voice warming.
"It's not flattery, it's genuine. I believe you have more courage than most. Not everyone could throw that diary away when they realised something was wrong. And not everyone could go back for it when they discovered it might endanger someone else." Hermione smiled. "I've always admired you for that. You were willing to let it hurt you rather than let it hurt someone else. Do you think that's a small thing?"
"Don't," Ginny said, going red. "I was so foolish back then. Harry must think I was terribly stupid."
"Nobody thinks that. To me, the Ginny Weasley who's loyal to her friends, full of strange ideas, sometimes mischievous, and quietly excellent at quite advanced spells — that's who you are most of the time. That's the you Harry has never had the chance to meet," Hermione said. "The question is whether you can shed that veil and show him your true self."
"I have to admit — it's not only nerves," Ginny said, distressed. "I always feel like the more I say, the worse things get. So better to say nothing. I don't want to put my foot in it or bore him. Over time, I've just... stopped being able to say anything at all."
"Oh, Ginny." Hermione waved a hand. "Those closest to a situation are usually the least clear-sighted about it. I think most of what you say is rather funny."
"That's because you're partial to me! You find everything I say interesting!" Ginny said firmly. "He's different from you. He's never seemed particularly impressed. But then again, his standards must be high."
Hermione looked up from her book. "Why would you think that?"
"Need I explain? He's extraordinary. At barely fifteen, he defeated You-Know-Who as an infant, killed the Basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets, conjured a Patronus strong enough to drive off a hundred Dementors." Ginny counted on her fingers. "The youngest Seeker in Gryffindor history, a Special Award for Services to the School, Hogwarts Champion, facing dragons and lake monsters without flinching. His character is noble, he's kind to everyone..."
She concluded with great certainty: "I genuinely don't know what kind of girl could deserve someone like that."
Hermione stared at Ginny's radiant, starstruck face and thought privately:
Have you somehow forgotten him and your brother scrambling to finish homework at eleven at night the day before a deadline?
"Put your fingers down, Ginny! The last time I watched someone count on their fingers like that, it was Harry listing his predicted misfortunes for June in order to get Professor Trelawney, who adores catastrophe, to give his essay an Outstanding." Hermione shook her head. "Listen to me. I've found the real problem here."
Ginny obediently lowered her hand and went back to scratching Crookshanks's twitching ear. "What problem?"
"You've made Harry into something more than human," Hermione said plainly. "You need to actually know him — all of him, the parts that aren't impressive alongside the parts that are — instead of worshipping an image."
"I don't understand —" Ginny said.
"Do you know what sort of girl Harry actually likes?" Hermione thought back to Harry's current state as the third task loomed. "I think he's drawn to people who treat him normally. Not people who look at him with stars in their eyes. His life has always had other people's expectations and projections piled on top of him — halos he never asked for. Do you think he enjoys that?"
Ginny looked uncertain.
"Look —" Hermione tilted her chin in Harry's direction. He was in the corner of the common room, and Colin Creevey was currently talking at him with great animation.
"Do you think he actually enjoys being stared at and surrounded by that kind of enthusiasm?"
Ginny looked at Harry carefully. His face was flushed, his expression politely trapped. Even from across the room it was clear that he desperately wanted to escape from Colin, who was firing off photographs like a man on a mission.
"He wants to be treated like an ordinary boy. He wants ordinary happiness. The admiration, the awe, the envy — it's not as wonderful as being left alone to play Gobstones with your brother for an afternoon. Do you understand?" Hermione asked.
"I think... I'm beginning to," Ginny said. She stood up from the sofa, rolled up her sleeves in the brisk way she'd inherited from her father and brothers, pulled out her wand, and declared: "I'm going to sort Colin out right now."
"Wait — that wasn't quite what I meant —" Hermione started.
Too late. She watched, helpless, as Ginny charged headlong at the unfortunate Colin Creevey and, in full view of the common room, delivered a spectacular Bat-Bogey Hex.
"Well?" the redhead came racing back, breathless and bright. "I went over there and solved Harry's problem! Now he can have his peace and quiet."
"I... admire your, er, bold approach," Hermione managed.
She peeked over Ginny's shoulder. "Though he does appear to have been startled by the hex."
The excitement drained from Ginny's voice. She froze, too frightened to turn around. Her face went red. "What do I do now?"
"It's all right — he's laughing with everyone." Hermione looked at her flustered face and said, with wicked amusement, "So then, our courageous Ginny Weasley — why didn't you take the opportunity to say a word to him?"
"I... I forgot," Ginny said, nearly biting her tongue.
"Next time — try talking to Harry the way you talk to everyone else. Naturally. Show him the person people actually enjoy being around," Hermione said, still laughing. "Today was a good start, at least. You got his attention."
"Do you really think so?" Ginny immediately stopped stammering, glanced furtively at the crowd, and said with a sudden brightness, "He noticed me?"
"In a situation like that, it would be quite difficult not to notice the person who rescued him," Hermione said, amused. Ginny went pink again. Hermione circled a spell in her book and said idly, "By the way — when did you first start liking Harry?"
Ginny's colour deepened further, and she absolutely refused to answer.
She studied Hermione's annotations in the margins instead, then looked up with a calculating gleam. "Hermione, I believe in fair and equal friendship. You have to tell me your story before I'll tell you mine. When did you start liking your boyfriend?"
"Oh — when I went to Hogsmeade last year to buy your love potion —" Hermione said without looking up. "You know, I smelled him."
"No, no, no, it's not that simple." Ginny shook her finger. "We all know how Amortentia works. Smelling someone's scent while the potion is active confirms you like them at that moment — it doesn't tell you when you first started liking them."
"How can you be so certain about something like that?" Hermione murmured, eyeing the finger.
"It's simple, actually." Ginny adopted a sage, self-satisfied expression. "You just have to remember when you first smelled his scent — that scent, specifically, the one that Amortentia shows you. That will tell you roughly when the feeling began."
Hermione suddenly remembered the crisp, refreshing scent she'd noticed on him — the scent of watermelon — which had been so unexpectedly pleasant.
And — a very long time ago, when he'd first taken her flying on his broomstick, she had smelled it.
"So. Do you remember now?" Ginny asked with a slow, delighted smile.
"No!" Hermione said, and turned pages with unnecessary force. "I don't remember a thing! Now you tell me — when did you first smell yours?"
"Hermione, the real question was never about when you first smelled him." Ginny didn't press her further. Instead, she spoke with the deeply philosophical air of someone who had seen through the illusions of this world. "Knowing when you fell for someone isn't the end of the story. It's the start of a different one entirely."
She glanced at the thoroughly trapped girl — who was now very much caught — and said with quiet meaning, "Shouldn't you be wondering whether he smelled your scent from the Amortentia? And when?"
Hermione's hands stilled on the book.
That hit rather squarely where it landed.
It was a question Hermione had occasionally turned over in her mind without quite daring to examine it directly:
The summer before third year, when she and Draco had stood near the Amortentia together — he had never mentioned what he smelled. Not once.
Had he smelled something connected to her?
But how could she possibly ask? Hermione stared at the open book on her lap, drifting.
If he hadn't smelled her scent, wouldn't it just be embarrassing for them both?
"Hermione. You need to ask your boyfriend whether he ever smelled your scent in the Amortentia, don't you?" Ginny said quietly.
"I — yes —" Hermione replied automatically, and then caught herself, caught out by the very clever little devil sitting across from her. "Wait — how did you know that's what I was thinking?"
"Those closest to a situation are usually the least clear-sighted about it," Ginny said sweetly, echoing Hermione's own words back at her.
She regained her cheerful glow and, in her usual fashion, began to tease: "Stop brutalising that book and go and find out when that Slytherin boy actually fell for you."
"Oh, Ginny, I have to go —" Hermione shut the book firmly, touched the warm ring on her finger, and made up her mind. "You're right. I need to get to the bottom of this."
It was June now, and the air was thick with the scent of flowers.
The early summer warmth had driven all the students to abandon their heavy cloaks. Girls' uniform skirts had become one of the finer sights in the Hogwarts corridors, while the boys — leaning against the walls in their thinner shirts, attempting to look effortlessly cool — were very obviously not looking at anything in particular.
Since the Yule Ball, something had shifted in a number of the boys. They had stopped announcing, with such authority, that "girls are an incomprehensible species," and had apparently discovered that there was something to appreciate in them after all.
Their impressions of certain girls had changed dramatically. They had noticed that some girls, who had previously seemed entirely unremarkable under their plain black school robes, had turned out to be impressive and graceful at the ball — and hadn't been forgotten since.
"...Always hidden under a black robe, who'd have thought she had a waist that slim?" Fifth-year Gryffindor Cormac McLaggen was appraising Hermione Granger's calves — which were looking particularly striking above her white slouch socks — and saying to his companion with a proprietary air. "Who'd have thought there was someone like that behind all that hair and those books?"
"Not every bloke is as sharp-eyed as that little Slytherin snake, who saw through Granger ages ago," his companion said with an amused snort. "What, getting envious now? Didn't you say something about Katie Bell's nose two days ago? Already moved on?"
"You don't appreciate variety," McLaggen said, licking his lips. "I've also been giving Ravenclaw's Seeker, Cho Chang, a second look."
"She's taken, isn't she?" his companion said.
"That's the problem. All the ones worth looking at already have someone." McLaggen stared at the brown-haired girl who walked straight past them without so much as a glance, gave a loud, hopeful whistle at her retreating figure — which went entirely unreturned — and said with theatrical regret, "What a waste. Those legs went to a self-important Slytherin."
Had Lavender been there, she would have told Hermione immediately that a whistle was a direct and obvious declaration of interest.
Our thoroughly oblivious protagonist, however, did not connect the sound to herself at all. She glanced with mild amusement at the fine lettering on her ring — Room of Requirement — and hurried around the corner onto the eighth floor.
She was busy opening the door near the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, busy entering the small Potions room the Room of Requirement had furnished for her, and busy using it as a reason to be near Draco Malfoy more often.
When secrets become harder to keep — like Draco needing to brew Wolfsbane for Remus Lupin every full moon — a couple can spend more time together more naturally.
"Why did you come here to brew?" Hermione glanced into the cauldron and asked cheerfully. "Why not your usual place?"
"Too much risk," Draco said, serious. "I simply cannot afford a girl getting the wrong idea."
The Room of Requirement was not Draco's preferred spot for potions work. The dark memories of his previous life made him uneasy there. But even that discomfort had become less important than keeping Hermione Granger free of jealousy.
Hermione, entirely unaware of his anxiety, smiled and stood beside him for a full quarter of an hour, watching him work through the Wolfsbane and Aconite with practised precision.
The Aconite went into the steaming cauldron, and a sharp, pungent smell rose with the steam. Only then did Hermione realise something. "I've been wondering for a while — why does your hair sometimes not smell quite right? There's been a strange undertone... I assumed Professor Snape was making potions for you at odd hours."
"I thought I'd managed to clear the smell off reasonably well," Draco said, scoffing. "Hair just absorbs everything, apparently."
"It does," Hermione agreed, pulling a strand of her own hair close and sniffing it. "It takes forever to get the Potions classroom smell out."
"Speaking of which —" Draco's voice softened as he measured out liquorice root powder and tipped it into the cauldron. "Do you really like the way I smell? You describe it as 'pleasant.'"
Thanks to Merlin, Hermione always found some way to redirect his thoughts from the darker corridors of his mind. Timely relief, every time.
"Of course!" Hermione said, still examining her hair.
The next second, she felt the smug, radiant satisfaction emanating from the boy beside her.
Concerned about feeding an ego that was already quite healthy, she quickly reversed course. "No! I didn't mean — no!"
"I heard what you said." He smiled sideways at her.
"Oh, fine. Yes. I really do like it." Hermione surrendered.
And truthfully — she always became slightly distracted when he was nearby. It took a considerable amount of self-control not to simply lean over and sniff him properly, right then and there.
Today was no exception. She'd been standing beside him for over a quarter of an hour, wanting to do exactly that, but the subject of Amortentia was hovering in the back of her mind and making the whole thing feel charged and embarrassing.
Since he had called her out, she abandoned the pretence of reserve. On impulse, she wrapped her arms around his waist from behind, pressing herself against the back of his white shirt.
She said with great dignity, "I'm happy every time I smell you. Satisfied?"
"Very satisfied. Very pleasing," Draco said slowly, attending to the bitter herbs, while feeling something quite unlike bitterness settle warmly inside him.
Hermione snorted, pretending she hadn't caught the teasing in his voice. She took a deep, deliberate sniff of him — a faint, soft, warm cedar note on his shirt — and felt a wave of contentment.
But as she continued to sniff, the unease crept back. Did he feel the same about her scent?
He liked sniffing her hair. She could always feel it when they embraced.
But "he likes to smell her hair" was not, technically, conclusive evidence that "his Amortentia contained her scent."
Just now, he'd said "very pleasing," but he hadn't even turned his head — still perfectly calm, still brewing his potion, as though her behaviour hadn't unsettled him at all.
What was he actually thinking? Her fingers traced idle patterns on the back of his shirt as Hermione sank into a very complicated internal spiral.
Draco was enduring his girlfriend's extremely distracting behaviour with great patience.
He certainly was not unaffected. She had attached herself to him like a small, warm ornament and moved with him wherever he went at the potions station, refusing to let go.
More alarmingly, she was nuzzling his back with her nose and tracing lines around his navel with her fingers — sensations quite sufficient to make any physiologically functional boy very tense indeed.
His barely-functioning reason reminded him that he had to calmly and steadily complete the remaining steps; while every other part of him desperately wanted to turn around immediately and deal with this impossible girl.
After an interminable fifteen minutes, the tormented boy waved his wand to reduce the flame beneath the cauldron to a low simmer and set the antique timer.
"Hermione, you're being unusually mischievous today," he said, making his voice as neutral as possible while drying his hands. He tried to puzzle out her intentions. "Did something come up with your friends?"
"No," she said at once, her voice jumping an octave above its natural register.
"Of course it didn't," Draco said, amused.
Her voice gave everything away. There was definitely something brewing in that very active mind of hers.
He turned through the chain of events since she'd arrived, and casually wrapped her wandering hand in his, working his fingers slowly around hers. She let him hold it without complaint, but her nose continued to cause trouble against his back.
After a moment, he asked softly, as though coaxing rather than questioning: "Hermione, could you tell me... what you like about me?"
"No," Hermione said warily, instinctively refusing before she'd even thought about it.
That only sharpened his curiosity further. His instincts told him the answer to that question would be worth hearing.
He turned to face her — she made a disgruntled sound at losing the use of his back — and fixed her with mournfully reproachful eyes. "It's interesting, isn't it — not long ago, you were demanding complete honesty from me. And now you'd like to keep your own little secret without any such obligation."
"That's completely different!" Hermione sensed the trap immediately.
Like a confident rabbit — self-assured, guileless, cheerful — she thought she had enough wit to avoid it. She moved forward and tucked herself against his chest, refusing to meet those expertly mournful eyes in case she tumbled straight in.
Merlin, Draco was electrified by her touch and her scent the instant she moved close. She had avoided his gaze, yes — apparently recognising some danger — but then immediately replaced it with something considerably more reckless.
She was actually standing on tiptoe and sniffing his neck.
"My harmless little secret won't hurt anyone," the girl said, her fingertips tracing absent-minded patterns on the fabric over his heart, apparently absorbed in its texture. "And you have to admit — when you demanded answers from me, it was because you thought there was a werewolf at Hogwarts."
Draco was briefly speechless, aware only of the rapid warmth spreading wherever she touched him.
"That terrifyingly convincing lie she just delivered," he thought. And then she goes and sets him on fire on top of it.
"All right, I can't argue with that logic," he said. Noticing the timer, which still had some time left, he drew a breath, placed his hands on her waist, and lifted her cleanly off the floor. "Rest with me for a bit? This potion needs to simmer."
"This is new!" Hermione said with delight, her eye level suddenly level with his. "I'm taller than you now. I can see the top of your head!" She wrapped her arms around his neck with great satisfaction, clinging to him like a small sloth.
Entirely unsuspecting. Entirely without awareness of how the combination of her position and her school skirt was affecting the boy who was carrying her. She seemed to genuinely not understand how much commotion her current posture could cause.
Draco's ears went red.
Strange — in the darkness of the tunnel, he'd been able to muster a certain bravado, hide behind shadow, and tease her with a grin. In full daylight, his true self reasserted itself, and all he could do was blush and maintain an upright gentlemanly demeanour.
"Yes, you're getting on very well," he muttered, unsure if she understood the double meaning, and crossed to the leather sofa at the far end of the room as quickly as his remaining composure would allow. He lowered her onto it, managed a calm-ish smile.
Then he saw her looking up at him — those warm brown eyes, wide and happy, unblinking — and the faint pink in her cheeks.
"Draco —" Hermione said with a smile, looking straight into his clear grey eyes. "Have I ever told you that your eyes are beautiful?"
Draco's heart gave a sharp, irregular beat at the directness of her stare and her praise.
He tried to straighten up and step back. She still had her arms around his neck and pulled him gently toward her.
"She's being particularly bold today," Draco thought.
Before he quite knew what was happening, he was on his knees on the sofa, his hands braced on either side of her head, his knees pressing down on the hem of her skirt. His throat moved involuntarily.
"What's got into you today?" he asked, a faint awkwardness in his voice. "Why are you baiting me like this?"
"I love your eyes," Hermione said cheerfully, bending his neck down toward her with her arms as though he had no say in the matter. "I want to see them up close."
His oddly self-conscious eyes were caught by hers. He had no way to refuse. He lowered himself to his elbows.
They moved closer.
"Beautiful," Hermione breathed, fixated, drawing him forward until they were practically speaking against each other's skin.
"I don't think," Draco murmured, "that at this distance, you can see my eyes anymore."
"You're right, I can't. But I very much like the hollow of your throat." Hermione whispered against his left ear, her lips just brushing the small mole near it.
The mole would normally have made his complexion look paler. Now, a strange, warm flush had gathered around it.
"Why?" The boy's voice came out somewhat like summer soda — bright and cold all at once.
"It smells very nice there," she said, low.
"I don't believe you. I'm not wearing cologne today." His warm breath moved against her cheek near her ear, making her shiver.
"It's not cedar. It's something cooler — like watermelon." She murmured, her fingers sliding through his platinum blonde hair, softly tracing his scalp.
He relaxed immediately. She always knew how to settle him.
"Did you just notice it?" His voice was careful, almost as though he were afraid of startling something.
"I noticed it a long, long time ago." She nuzzled his cheek, her smiling voice brushing his ear. "I used to think you used a special shampoo."
"I don't. I had no idea I smelled like that," Draco said quietly.
"That's rather peculiar —" She rubbed her cheek against his again and registered that his skin was even warmer than her own.
Something thoughtful moved through Draco's eyes.
Then — a slow, wicked smile appeared on his face for the first time that afternoon. He began to draw her out with a purpose he had not previously had: "Good girl. Tell me — is that watermelon scent the same as what you've noticed before... freshly cut grass, new parchment, and a faint watermelon?"
His voice came out clear and light, like scattered flecks of bright platinum — a warm, effervescent fizz against her ear.
"Yes... exactly like that..." Hermione, half-undone by that voice and the scent curling around her senses, drifted toward his words.
"Good girl... very good... have you smelled it somewhere else?" He continued in that same bright, unhurried voice that seemed to travel straight through her eardrums and settle in her thoughts.
She murmured hazily, "Even at the joke shop, in the Amortentia display..."
His quiet laugh — warm and intimate — landed in her ear. Hermione snapped upright at the sound, startled by her own transparency.
Draco leaned closer, intrigued, studying her expression: "So, my dear — your Amortentia has always carried my scent."
"Draco, how could you trick me like that!" Hermione exclaimed, face blazing.
This had not gone as planned at all. She had come here today to ask him a question. How had he turned it around so completely?
Yes, she was fond of both watermelon and warm cedar, and had perhaps become rather obsessively fond of them. She hadn't wanted to admit it — hadn't wanted to admit that she was completely besotted with him. But her willpower had crumbled against his voice and his scent and his face. Without her noticing, he had drawn out every bit of it.
How mortifying. Hermione turned her face away and refused to look at him. She dropped the hand that had been running through his hair.
She stared at the back of the sofa, shame and embarrassment welling up. Something felt off about her whole body in that moment; his burning gaze kept finding her face, tormenting her; finally she chose to close her eyes and pretend to have vacated the premises entirely.
From Draco's perspective, this was not a convincing performance.
He knew she was shy — and a little cross with herself. Her emotional state was as legible to him as ink on glass, made plain by her shallow breathing and the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
To be candid, those movements were becoming increasingly difficult for him to ignore.
He hesitated, then nuzzled her flushed cheek with the tip of his nose. "Don't be shy... I'm so glad about this. I don't think I'll ever be properly jealous of Krum again." He dropped his voice. "Hermione. Don't shut me out. Look at me — kiss me, please?"
"No!" Hermione kept her eyes shut and refused to acknowledge her own existence. "Draco, keep your distance! Don't kiss me and don't try to charm me again!"
He did not keep his distance.
He said, entirely innocently, "I would gladly comply with that request. But given where your legs currently are, it's quite difficult."
It wasn't only her legs. The hem of her skirt under his knee, and above it a section of smooth calf above the white slouch sock, were both making things quite complicated.
It was only then that Hermione registered she had been maintaining her sloth-like posture this entire time.
At this realisation, her face went several shades redder, approaching the colour of a cauldron that's been simmering for too long.
"Oh — sorry —" She tried to shift, but the sofa was small.
There was almost nowhere to go, and she found herself stuck in a very awkward dilemma.
"Oh good grief," Hermione said faintly. She felt his hands close around her leg — which was feverishly hot — as he helped her find a space to move.
She kept her eyes shut, but registered the slide of his fingers, and heard him exhale softly with what sounded very much like satisfaction once he'd managed to arrange things somewhat.
That mortifying, bent-leg situation — how embarrassing — that absolutely terrible, irredeemable rascal —
Even without looking, she could feel the charged, impossible atmosphere between them.
Hermione let out a silent scream in the privacy of her own head. Finally, she couldn't resist cracking one eye open to look at him — wanting to accuse him of something, or at least catch him smirking.
He wasn't smirking. He wasn't mocking her at all. His expression was entirely serious.
Half his face was in shadow from his fringe, and his deep-set eyes looked unusually still and very dark.
Hermione felt like a rabbit that had slipped one snare only to find itself in a rather nicer, more elaborately arranged one — a cage that was warm and close and very difficult to object to.
Under the weight of his expression and the closeness of him, she felt helpless and restless all at once. She tilted her head back, closed her eyes again, and could no longer bring herself to look or think clearly about her own position.
How had things come to this? What had possessed her to cling to him?
The small devil inside her was shaking with retrospective horror.
It must have been his scent. His scent had done it. It had been so intoxicating that she'd momentarily lost control of herself.
"Hermione. Open your eyes and look at me." She felt his shadow shift closer, felt the warmth of him begin to spread from her earlobe down her neck. "I very much want to kiss you right now, it's almost painful —"
She felt him press his face to her neck and inhale deeply, a breath moving warm against her collarbone.
"— but I want to tell you something first. It's the same for me. I've always smelled green apple on you. One of the defining scents in my Amortentia."
Something sudden and bright and warm flooded through her — and she remembered, vividly, how much this boy loved eating green apples.
She thought of all the small, close moments between them — how he always seemed to breathe her in when he held her.
If his Amortentia had carried her scent, then all of that made perfect sense.
Hermione dared to open her eyes again. She found him watching her, and couldn't stop the smile that broke across her face.
"Really? You smelled me? Is that why you've always eaten so many green apples?" Her eyes were bright as she reached out and slid her fingers through his platinum hair again, a small private joy humming in her chest.
"Yes," he said. "Back then, I couldn't kiss you the way I can now."
"But you always called me your little sister," Hermione said, half-smug and half-wounded.
"I made a profoundly stupid mistake. I won't make it again." He looked up and met her gaze.
She saw it clearly, then — what he was trying not to quite let show in his grey eyes. Something hungry and barely reined in. A greedy, particular kind of wanting that was directed entirely at her.
It was remarkable that this expression appeared on his face at all. Draco Malfoy was famously cold, controlled, and impenetrable.
As Neville had once put it — if Draco Malfoy fixed you with that icy stare, you'd feel it for the rest of the day.
Hermione could say, with some pride, that she was the exception to all of that.
He always showed her a particular warmth. But even so, he almost always presented her with the gentlemanly version of himself.
Apart from that time behind the tapestry — and the sofa in the library's card catalogue room — she had rarely seen this unguarded version of him. In the dark behind the tapestry, the emotion had been in his words more than his face. In the library, his feeling had been tucked against her shoulder; she'd sensed it, but not seen it.
Now it was written plainly across his face, visible in daylight, and it was directed entirely at her.
Hermione's sharp mind went wonderfully, completely blank. His cold, careful exterior had dissolved. Looking into his eyes, she knew she was done.
Because in that instant she realised that she liked his wanting her.
It wasn't just liking, either. It was — desire.
This was very, very bad.
Her eyes locked onto his and refused to let go.
"Are you certain? You won't make any more stupid decisions?" Hermione whispered, unsure what words were actually coming out of her mouth.
She held on to the last fragment of her composure, while inside her a rabbit raced in circles, increasingly frantic.
"Completely certain. I love you, Hermione Granger." He looked at her quietly, his face slightly flushed.
The words moved through her like something warm and certain.
She smiled and reached for him — his neck, his cheek, somewhere — but his hand closed gently around hers before she could.
He slowly intertwined his fingers with hers and pressed her restless hands down to either side of her head.
Hermione blinked at him, a little uncertain. He was watching her, apparently gauging her reaction.
And then she understood: he had her exactly where he wanted her.
"Ugh..." A small, weak sound escaped her. Her chest contracted and her breathing shortened.
Everything — dizzy.
And their position. Their proximity. The undeniable pull between them, no longer quite hidden by either of them.
She couldn't fool anyone. Her wanting him was no smaller than his wanting her.
Would he kiss her? She watched him, shy and expectant.
Draco looked at the girl beneath him, whose pupils had widened with something unmistakably welcoming.
Her neck had gone pink from nothing more than his being close, and they hadn't even kissed yet.
He lowered his head — but not to her lips. She had asked him not to kiss her, and he was curious about something new.
He tasted her earlobe. He drew it gently into his mouth, like a sip of something hot and sweet — the skin flushed bright and warm immediately.
He laughed softly against her ear. The sound moved through her cochlea and set off a shiver in every fine hair.
The shiver travelled down through her neck to her spine. And continued to spread, reaching every nerve ending in its path.
She unclenched her hands from his, her fingers going limp at her sides.
Her shoulders curved inward; her back pressed against the sofa.
For some inexplicable reason, Hermione found herself thinking of the soft fudge from Honeydukes — the kind that sold out every time. She felt rather like that fudge.
Dissolving gently, going blissfully soft.
"Draco..." she said, very quietly.
He made a low sound. "Mm..."
His lips left her ear and found her collarbone.
She made a startled sound, and her expression became entirely conflicted — terrified and fascinated in equal measure.
He bit down, very softly.
Hermione gasped.
"Draco... what are you doing..." she managed, feeling a distinct, bewildering alarm at his illogical geography.
The dormant nerves were waking up rapidly, announcing that they were warm and tingling.
Even her scalp was tingling.
She was so preoccupied with the sensation spreading through her that she didn't notice her own collarbone arching upward toward his lips, a significant gap appearing between her back and the sofa.
"Drawing," Draco answered softly, pleased to see the pink beginning to bloom there.
He was a clumsy painter discovering how to mix colours, applying them to her with great care.
"That makes no sense..." Hermione murmured.
It was warm in here. It must be the potion simmering.
His fingertips had moved from pinning her hands; now they were slowly, curiously tracing the line of her collarbone, following the elegant rise and dip of those delicate bones.
He'd been curious about this place for a long time. Since that butterbeer kiss, he'd wanted to look properly.
"Your collarbone is beautiful," he murmured, half to himself.
His breathing was so close it moved against her eardrums, and her whole body resonated with it.
She began to breathe in time with him.
Two people, breathing at the same frequency. Quietly calming each other.
Hermione tilted her head back, unconsciously stretching her neck and collarbone into one long, smooth line.
It was strange. Dreamlike. She could have sworn she saw the cauldron in the corner reflected upside-down in the ceiling, steam drifting downward.
Her hands felt light and boneless. She curled them loosely near her ears, barely able to close her fists.
What should she do?
Where did this lead?
He was making her dizzy. She was making him greedy.
The antique timer chose that moment to emit a sharp, intrusive ring — the Wolfsbane was ready.
Draco's thoughts, in summary: Damn it.
He did not want to stop.
"Draco... the potion..." The girl's eyes were slightly glassy; she was panting faintly as she reminded him.
Draco sighed and forced himself off the sofa.
He was caught, and he knew it — but the potion had to be dealt with.
Otherwise Remus Lupin would be in genuine danger this month.
Hermione knew he had to go. But as he actually got up, she felt an immediate hollow loss, and a wave of pure disappointment.
She made a small, unhappy sound, blinking at him — only to find that he hadn't yet left. He was still hovering above her, breathing slightly hard, staring down at her.
"We're not done," he said. His hand traced her collarbone once more and then moved to her jaw, fingers closing carefully around it. He kissed her lips — brief, intent, possessive — then pulled back just far enough to breathe.
She was so sweet. Absolutely undoing.
Draco got off the sofa with great reluctance, leaned over a moment longer, and ran his thumb lightly across her lips.
A shiver ran through her.
He leaned close to her ear and said, just above a whisper, his breath warm and unsteady: "Be a good girl and wait."
Hermione was bemused.
Her thoughts may have been dissolved by the kiss, and his thumb, and his breath against her ear.
She absolutely should not have provoked him. She slumped against the sofa cushions, face warm.
His tall, unhurried figure moved toward the workstation.
She watched him go. She waited for him to come back, so they could continue wherever this was going, or perhaps to lose herself in another one of those long, captivating kisses.