This was the afternoon Rita Skeeter fled the Great Hall in terror, frightened off by Fleur Delacour.
The sudden rain had just stopped. Wind swept through in gusts, sending clouds swirling overhead — the sky shifting from clear to dark and back again without warning.
On days like this, with the pressure of exam week finally lifted and their moods as unpredictable as the weather, almost every Hogwarts student preferred to stay in their House common room, whiling away the lazy afternoon with post-exam idleness: gossip, idle chat, long naps, and the general joy of doing absolutely nothing.
Madam Pince, who had been dozing at the front desk, had fully expected the library to be empty this afternoon — company provided only by the occasional drip of water outside the window.
So when faint whispers drifted in from the doorway, followed by the soft rustle of fabric and unhurried footsteps, she sat up sharply.
One glance confirmed her suspicion: the library's most diligent pair had arrived, hand in hand.
Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger.
Madam Pince watched the handsome Slytherin boy murmur something to the pretty Gryffindor girl at his side, and a long-dormant, indulgent smile spread across her face.
Whether they slipped into the card catalogue room searching for something, or settled quietly into the private VIP alcove, no librarian — however sharp-eyed or enthusiastic — could extract much useful gossip from a couple so guarded and private. Still, she had managed to spot their interlocked fingers, and that small detail was sweet enough to savour.
Her treasure couple — the one she and Bobby had discovered first — had not disappointed them. Madam Pince nodded gracefully as the young pair greeted her, while inwardly screaming like a delighted Mandrake.
Still going strong... still so sweet... May Merlin bless them... they're young yet, may they live happily ever after... She stroked her favourite feather duster with quiet amusement.
Perhaps it's time to start looking for a new couple to follow. She clicked her tongue thoughtfully. Preferably one less guarded — a pair who wouldn't run themselves ragged avoiding every prying eye, leaving her with nothing but empty hands and unconfirmed rumours.
In the study corner, the young couple, having received Madam Pince's unorthodox blessing, sat side by side at the great mahogany table. They worked in earnest, flipping through the volumes Tom Riddle had once borrowed, trying once more to piece together useful clues during the four or five leisurely days remaining before the journey home.
"I still can't quite believe it — Fleur Delacour actually drew her wand on Rita Skeeter!" This was probably the hundredth time Hermione had said some version of this today, her voice bright with admiration. "I have to admit, I've completely underestimated her. She's changed my whole impression of her."
"Hmm," Draco replied, not quite listening.
He was still turning over Rita Skeeter's words in his mind. Whether it was his mother quietly dispatching someone to investigate Hermione, or Fudge exploiting the Daily Prophet to pressure Hogwarts — both problems were giving him a headache. Problems he couldn't yet solve or avoid.
What should I do? he thought vaguely.
Hermione, for her part, was not weighed down in the same way.
She had been both shocked and delighted by the spectacular scene of Rita Skeeter's expulsion from the Great Hall.
"Girls should be fearless, like Fleur Delacour," she said, head bent over her book, voice warm with admiration. "Confident and strong — she's exactly the kind of witch I respect. And I'll admit, before today, I had something of a problem with her."
"What sort of problem?" he asked, glancing up.
"She always speaks so bluntly, without any tact," Hermione said. "And whenever she appears, every boy in the vicinity goes completely soppy over her—"
That observation was enough to pull Draco out of his brooding.
"That's a rather sweeping statement," he said pointedly. "I have never been soppy over her."
He felt it was important to make this clear — he was not that sort of reckless teenager.
"No, you haven't, have you? I've noticed you seem remarkably immune to Veela allure. You were completely unmoved at the Quidditch World Cup too." Hermione looked at him with open curiosity. "Don't you think Veelas are beautiful?"
"Beautiful?" Draco scoffed, as though she'd told a particularly bad joke. "I wouldn't call Veelas beautiful. At best, their appearance is a convincing trick — a kind of glamour. That's a long way from beauty."
"Levels of beauty?" she repeated, interest piqued. "You think beauty has gradations?"
"I suppose I do." There was a hint of arrogance in his eyes — the critical eye of someone who had long since formed exacting standards. "What most people call beauty is a superficial thing: pleasing features, a good figure. Fleeting. The beauty I have in mind is something richer and more complex."
It had always been accepted, by those who knew him, that Draco Malfoy had the right to be discriminating about beauty.
He was well aware of this himself, and he genuinely disdained the objects of common fascination — Veelas and other magical creatures who attracted attention through the spectacle of their appearance.
The Malfoy family's immunity to Veelas had its roots in a certain ancestral arrogance: a deeply-held belief in their own superiority. Veelas, in their estimation, were simply a species inferior to wizards — no different, in principle, to the gold-grubbing goblins of Gringotts. The only distinction was that one was pretty and one was not, and neither attribute earned a Malfoy's admiration.
Those with Black blood tended to react to Veelas with a kind of cool detachment. The Blacks possessed an instinctive, unyielding eye for beauty — whether exquisite or corrupted. Because they so often embodied a striking beauty of their own, they held the concept to a demanding, almost cruel standard; and their stubborn individualism meant each member of the family arrived at their own fierce and particular definition of what beauty meant.
This young man — carrying the combined bloodlines of both the Malfoy and Black families — had, as a result, a more discerning eye than most, and a definition of beauty that was almost impossibly demanding.
Few people had ever caught Draco's attention, in this life or the last. What most people called beautiful was, in his eyes, hollow, contrived, vulgar, or simply dull.
For the reborn Draco Malfoy, his standards had only grown higher.
Appearance mattered, of course — it was the threshold, the thing that made him look up and pay attention. A face that could hold up under scrutiny. But a pretty face alone was not enough, nor was a beautiful figure sufficient on its own.
He also needed to examine a girl's mind — to see whether the texture of her thoughts was interesting enough to hold his.
And perhaps to sense something of her soul — its quality, its scent, whether it was rare enough to be worth wanting.
"Rich and complex," Hermione repeated, turning the phrase over. "Could you elaborate?"
"Tom Riddle was quite handsome as a young man," Draco said, gesturing at the borrowed books spread across the table. "Many people were infatuated with his looks. Some lost their lives because of it. Would you call him beautiful?"
"Absolutely not," Hermione said, wrinkling her nose with distaste, flipping a page rather aggressively. "I understand what you mean. Judging by appearances alone is shallow. Someone truly beautiful wouldn't use their face as a weapon — that's the most contemptible kind of manipulation."
Draco nodded, set down his quill, and let his gaze rest on her:
Bright eyes, always warm and alert with curiosity. Soft lips, quick to answer any question. Pink cheeks, quick with a kind smile. Her thick brown hair was pinned up simply with a wooden clip, baring her small, fair ears — ears that seemed to follow every word he said.
Who could say she wasn't beautiful?
A loose strand of hair drifted across her cheek in a passing draught, and something in his chest shifted quietly.
Even the ink stains on her nimble fingers — fingers capable of brewing complex potions — were, in that moment, a particular kind of lovely.
She was like some rare, unplanned gift from creation. What made her more precious still was that she seemed entirely unaware of it. She wore no artifice. She would glance up at him with that unselfconscious, bright smile, and it undid him every time.
How charming.
After watching her for a long moment, Draco smiled faintly and said, "The kind of beauty I admire is extremely rare — rich and complex, as I said. It isn't simply about appearance. It's a beauty made up of loyalty, courage, wisdom, kindness, passion, tolerance, confidence, independence, pride, learning, composure, and ambition, all woven together into one person."
"Draco, your definition of beauty is impossibly strict," Hermione said, flushing under his steady gaze, shaking her head as if trying to cool herself down. "I've never met anyone like that. How could so many qualities exist in one person — does such a person even exist?"
"I believe they can, but it's extraordinarily rare," he said candidly. "A truly singular kind of beauty. I couldn't claim it for myself."
In both his past life and this one, there had been only one person Draco Malfoy would ever admit was flawless.
At this moment, he was looking directly at her.
"Perhaps," he said quietly, "there is only one person in the world who can be all of that." He reached over and laced his fingers through hers, holding them firmly. "Which is why, if you're lucky enough to find them, you have to hold on. If you miss your chance, there won't be another."
Hermione looked at him with a puzzled frown, unsure of what he was getting at.
His eyes were intent and steady, fixed on her as though she were the only one of her kind in existence.
But his words, so beautiful and so heavy, settled on her like something she couldn't quite lift. The kind of beauty he described — she couldn't imagine it had anything to do with her. Even someone as exceptional as him felt he fell short of the standard. Where could she possibly find the confidence to believe she was that rare, singular beauty he was describing?
Feeling unsettled, she decided not to push the matter.
Hermione cleared her throat, cheeks still flushed, and announced with renewed conviction, "In any case, I think Fleur Delacour looked absolutely beautiful today."
"She was brave when she raised her wand — I'll grant she was presentable," Draco said, measured as ever. "But I still think there are girls at Hogwarts far more beautiful than her."
He considered Fleur, who had faced down a reporter with her wand drawn, merely "presentable." Hermione frowned.
She hadn't even raised her wand at Rita Skeeter today.
She glanced at him wistfully, then fell headlong into self-doubt.
"Oh — I hate myself. Why didn't I have the nerve to draw my wand? All I did was talk back to her."
"Being measured is the right instinct," Draco said, reaching over to smooth her hair. "You weren't being a coward. You were reading the situation. You're a Hogwarts student. The Ministry of Magic can exert pressure here at any time — one wrong move and you risk expulsion."
He continued, casually, "Fleur, as a witch from France, didn't have that concern, which is why she could act so freely. When you look at the whole incident, she was probably one of the very few people in that room who could draw her wand without consequence."
"I know — and I know you're right," Hermione said, brow furrowed. "But I still feel uneasy. It seems as though we have no real way to keep Rita Skeeter in check."
She turned a page with unnecessary force. "I've been watching her closely, and many of her reports contain details that are simply too specific, too secretive. She'd have to be wearing an Invisibility Cloak and eavesdropping all over the castle to get some of them — unless—"
"She's an unregistered Animagus," Draco said. "A beetle."
Telling her isn't a problem. In her previous life, she'd only needed a little more time to work it out on her own.
He watched her expression shift from shock to realisation, and pressed on. "I used that secret to blackmail her into leaving you alone."
"What? That's — wait — that explains so much — I see—" Hermione's eyes lit up.
"That said, I'm afraid her leverage over you has now run out." Draco shook his head, regret in his voice. "She's very close to Fudge now, and she doesn't fear exposure the way she once did. You and Harry will need to be on your guard. An ugly little beetle could fly into Gryffindor Tower at any moment, hunting for secrets. You've both made an enemy of her — you'll be her prime targets."
"I'm not frightened of her," Hermione said, dismissive, though her eyes were kindling with quiet anger. "I know what she's capable of better than most. Ever since that article about Hagrid, he's been drowning in hateful Howlers — when I visited him, I helped him burn some of them." She lifted her chin. "I think I'm mentally prepared to face that particular 'bug.'"
Draco fell silent, eyes lowered.
Honestly — he didn't want her to have to face that kind of malice.
The summer after Lucius was sent to Azkaban, the Malfoy family had been the subject of the Daily Prophet's interest as well. They, too, had received Howlers — some gleefully vicious, some shaking with loathing and contempt.
Everyone says they don't care. Everyone says you can't please the whole world.
But when you actually receive those letters, the emotional blow is something else entirely. It's the sheer strangeness of a stranger's hatred — as if the whole world has chosen to open its doors and let all its malice pour in at once.
For Draco Malfoy, who had grown up surrounded by praise and flattery, it was a crueller shock than for most.
Yes, the Malfoys had done wrong. Lucius had done wrong. And Lucius had paid for it — he was in Azkaban.
But Draco, who had just turned sixteen, was nothing more than a spoiled, proud boy, raised under the shelter of his parents' influence. The worst he had ever done was his long feud with Potter. He had never done anything to the people who were now sending those letters — so why should he have to listen to them calling him a "filthy little bastard" and a "criminal's son", chasing him through the halls of his own manor, and screaming insults at his mother in bright red ink?
It was an unacceptable disgrace for a boy who had been proud to his core since childhood.
"They'll pay for this," Draco had said to his mother, his voice low and venomous. "I'll make them understand that a Malfoy is not to be insulted."
Narcissa, kneeling before the fireplace and feeding letters into the flames, had turned to look at him with frightened eyes. "Little Dragon, what are you going to do?"
"I'll make them regret looking down on us. I'll prove them wrong. I'll restore the dignity and honour of this family." His voice was dark and stubborn.
"Don't be impulsive — please—" But her voice was cut off as the heavy mahogany door swung shut between them.
The boy, his heart a furnace of rage, had walked away into the dark corridors of the manor — every step driven by irrationality, vengeance, and the fierce pride of a wounded sixteen-year-old.
He hadn't known, then, that every step he took in that direction was a step closer to the abyss.
He hadn't realised that the path he'd chosen to reclaim his honour would bring him no redemption — only deeper shame.
How naive.
The Malfoys, whose original motivation had been "dignity and honour," had continued, stubbornly and foolishly, to follow a man who despised them and viewed them as instruments — even after they had already suffered terribly for it. Under his direction, they had done the dirtiest, most contemptible things imaginable, things that had nothing whatsoever to do with honour.
He remembered. He remembered all of it.
The tragic result of letting ends-justify-the-means thinking steer every decision, until the outcome became the opposite of everything you'd intended.
"Draco, I'm a little curious—" Hermione, untroubled by the darkness of the future and unaware of Draco's silence, looked up from her book. "Why did Rita Skeeter get entangled with Cornelius Fudge in the first place?"
The boy's hand stilled against her hair — and its owner knew he couldn't sidestep the question.
Draco's expression darkened. He had no wish to dwell on those toxic old decisions, but he owed her the truth, and so he recounted in full what Rita Skeeter had said to him in the Great Hall — how she had taken the information he'd fed her and used it to cultivate a relationship with Fudge.
Hermione listened in silence, her expression growing increasingly strained.
"Hermione, you were right all along. The ends-justify-the-means approach is rubbish. I shouldn't have made a deal with her. I shouldn't have traded information with her. My methods were completely misguided," Draco said, frustrated with himself. "This is my fault."
"Draco, don't think like that. How can you blame yourself? That wasn't your intention — your motives were sound." Hermione turned to him, resting a hand on his arm. "Think about it: if you hadn't got those photographs in time and let us follow the trail, the outcome on the day of the final could have been far worse."
"But now Rita Skeeter has used the news of Bertha Jorkins' death — which I gave her — to get in with Fudge," Draco said, still unable to meet her eyes. He was afraid of what he'd find there: disappointment, blame, resentment. "She's swaggering around Hogwarts, threatening people, and things have spiralled completely out of control."
A crushing sense of frustration swept through him like a storm.
He turned and looked out the library window at the churning, cloud-heavy sky. "My self-righteous cleverness has backfired. This whole disaster is the direct consequence of my actions."
Hermione studied his profile. That sensitive, vulnerable quality had surfaced through the armour of his usual arrogance. A quiet, melancholy ripple flickered in his expression — as though his small miscalculation had brought catastrophe down on the entire world.
She felt rather helpless about it.
She always found herself sad when he was sad, worried when he worried.
After a long pause, she said, with a sigh of resignation, "To be honest, I agreed with your reasoning at the time. We made this decision together. So if you insist on claiming responsibility, then I'm taking at least half of it."
Draco looked up, startled — and found her brown eyes holding no reproach, only a quiet, steady understanding.
He felt considerably better at once.
He knew full well it was comfort rather than fact. The scheme of "dealing with Rita Skeeter" had been entirely his own idea, and Hermione had argued strenuously against it at the time. And yet the simple fact of her willingness to share the weight of it — the warmth of that gesture — lit something in his tired, darkened heart.
"We weren't sophisticated enough," Hermione said gently. "We underestimated her greed and cunning. I think you've now experienced the consequences of that approach very clearly."
She smiled when he finally looked at her again, and said, with warm conviction, "Next time, all right? A safer method. More principled. Less risky."
"I will. I'll think further ahead, and use less short-sighted methods." He exhaled heavily, still visibly weighed down.
Hermione sighed along with him.
A perfectionist. Brilliant. Exceptionally proud. Draco Malfoy was precisely the sort of person least suited to handling failure.
His life had been too smooth, his conditions too favourable. In the months since they'd met, Hermione had noticed that very few things escaped his control. When something did slip out of his grip, however, he seemed almost constitutionally unable to adapt — exactly as he was now.
Hermione Granger could not bear watching Draco Malfoy look so utterly defeated. At times like this, he reminded her of something rare and lovely that had lost its lustre — a dying unicorn, or a fairy driven out of its rosebush.
That quiet, fragile brokenness in him always seemed to drive her to do things she probably shouldn't.
Like that night, in the small hours before dawn, when she had let him press a hand against her heartbeat without a second thought, simply so he wouldn't cry in his sleep.
Like right now — reaching for his collar without quite deciding to, lips drawn towards his cheek, wanting to soothe that weary soul with a gentle kiss.
He had used this same method on her more than once. It usually worked.
She let her lips fall softly, petal by petal, across his face.
Interspersed with the light kisses were her words — impossibly tender, barely above a murmur: "Draco... my dear, impossible Draco... don't be sad... you've done so well... no one blames you... you tried your hardest... we both tried our hardest... no one is perfect... we'll learn from this... we'll find a way to fix it..."
Draco, listless at first, slowly came back to life beneath the warmth of her touch.
His complicated, stagnant heart began to beat again.
There was one thing Draco Malfoy would probably never understand: no matter how many times they kissed, every time she was the one to initiate it — whatever kind of kiss it was — it stirred something in him that felt entirely new. An excitement, an anticipation, that never seemed to fade.
What formula did she use? What was in this sweet, honey-soft drug that could wash away the bitterness in his heart so thoroughly and so quickly?
These kisses were entirely guileless. Gentle and warm, full of tenderness and care.
It was exactly what he needed. She always knew exactly what he needed.
The lingering clouds of loneliness and melancholy were blown gently back by her soft, sweet breath. Brilliant light rekindled in the dark corners of his world.
His eyes grew warm; the small, quiet thing inside him smiled.
He began, without thinking, to kiss her back. His hand moved to the nape of her neck, then abruptly pulled her hairpin free — her hair cascaded down over his fingers in a warm, loose waterfall.
He let the petal-soft kisses bloom between his lips, so they could no longer drift lightly across his cheeks.
Hermione had not expected that.
Draco never did anything by halves; he always wanted to devour her entirely.
That wilful brat.
The moment he'd recovered his energy and snapped out of his moping, he immediately began to make demands of her — insatiably greedy.
This wouldn't do. She had important work to do. Hermione put an end to the tender moment without the slightest remorse, firmly placing her hand between their lips.
"Since you're clearly in the mood to kiss me back, I know you're feeling much better," she said, with a sly smile. "We still have a great deal of work to do. I can't kiss you all day."
"Why not..." Draco murmured distractedly, pressing his lips to her palm instead.
Merlin, her palms were impossibly soft.
He kissed it again, inhaling deeply, as though he wanted to breathe the warmth and softness of her into his lungs.
"Draco, don't—" Hermione snatched her hand away, cheeks flaming.
He stared at her lips with unmistakable intent.
A gentle kiss like that was only water to him — it eased his thirst but couldn't quench it. Now, drawn in by her scent and her warmth, he craved something more. But she was already moving to leave, standing up and informing him, with breezy nonchalance, "Right — enough of that. I'm going to get another book."
"The book can wait," Draco said flatly, glaring at her.
Hermione fussed with her hair, which he'd thoroughly dishevelled, feeling rather unsettled under his gaze.
"It's probably one I've read before, but just to be safe, I'd like to check it again—" she muttered, pushing back her chair — only to find his arm had appeared across the gap between the chair, the table, and himself, boxing her in neatly.
"Running away?" He rose slowly to his feet, gaze shifting from looking up at her to looking calmly down.
"No, I just wanted — the book—" she said awkwardly, tucking her hands behind her back as if afraid he'd capture her palm again and hold it hostage.
She still hadn't assessed her situation properly, Draco thought.
He didn't want her hand. He wanted all of her. The only one of her kind in the world.
"We're not finished here. Besides—" He guided her gently around the end of the table and regarded her from above with a slow, playful smile. "Do you have any idea what you did to me last night?"
"Did I do anything outrageous when I was drunk?" Hermione's expression stiffened, and she blinked up at him frantically.
Merlin, please. She couldn't have done anything outrageous. He was obviously the one who'd gone too far — those marks hidden beneath her ribs were entirely his doing. She blushed at the thought.
Draco didn't bother arguing the point. He simply reached for her waist and lifted her onto the table.
Much better, he thought, satisfied.
Now neither of them had to worry about craning their necks; they could look each other in the eye at equal height. He could also reach her hair without the risk of her darting away. His legs were braced against the edge of the table; her legs were neatly boxed in. There was absolutely no slipping away without his permission.
He knew perfectly well what this cunning girl was up to.
"You, yesterday—" he said, meeting her eyes directly.
Her flushed cheeks, her soft lips, her bright and watchful gaze — they overlapped with the memory of that other girl: coquettish, slightly drunk, doing all manner of things she'd never admit to.
She tilted her head, waiting for him to finish.
Draco stopped speaking, and felt heat rise in his own face.
What on earth was he supposed to say?
She remembered none of it — not the earnest confessions, not the reckless touches, not the overly familiar gestures she'd woken up to.
"Forget it," he said softly, tilting her chin up and letting his thumb trace along the line of her jaw. "Rather than telling you, I'd rather let you experience it for yourself. Experience exactly how you treated me."
Those wide, innocent eyes.
As though she had never, even once, acted like a small and imperious queen, ordering him not to move, declaring that he smelled like heaven, and then proceeding to torment him in all manner of creative ways.
As though the long accumulation of blushing, breathless memories was simply a vivid and elaborate dream.
"How unfair," Draco thought, with a particular grimness. "I intend to make this unfairness very clear to you."
"Close your eyes," he said, bringing his lips to her lids.
Hermione shut them, a flicker of nerves going through her.
For a moment, it was like being in a field at night, scattered with flowers, her eyelids like petals trembling with dew — she could feel the gentle brush of his lashes in the dark.
His lips moved lightly from one eye to the other — like a dragonfly considering the surface of water, like a butterfly that couldn't quite settle.
Cedarwood-scented butterflies.
Had she ever kissed his eyes? Hermione wondered dimly, every sense narrowed to the barely-there warmth of his mouth against her closed lids.
Tiny sparks seemed to crackle and bloom behind her eyelids.
Then — the tips of their noses touched.
Soft, ticklish, just barely there. A smile crept onto her lips without permission.
His lips brushed the tip of her nose — then took it gently between his teeth.
She let out a surprised, muffled sound.
She opened her eyes and emerged from the dark, instantly caught by those adoring, luminous grey eyes.
Her hands slid down the front of his shirt, uncertain where to settle.
"I don't think," she said hastily, "that I ever bit your nose—"
He gave a quiet laugh, entirely confident. "You have. You were quite the bossy little queen about it."
She stared at him, thoroughly confused as to why he was calling her "little queen" and insisting she'd bitten him, while simultaneously registering, rather belatedly, that his hand had moved from her jaw to the back of her head — and that his other hand was now thoughtfully working her earlobe between his thumb and forefinger.
Until he finally drew it into his mouth.
Good heavens, this particular sensation sent a tremor from her scalp to her heels.
From his patient and absorbed demeanour, this appeared to be only the beginning.
Hermione reasoned that whatever she had done the night before, there was only one sensible course of action left to her now: deny everything and escape.
She pressed her hands against the table, trying to slide down while he was occupied — and was immediately, humiliatingly stuck.
Yes. The height was deliberate. Perfectly calculated.
He had thought of everything. She stared at the neat platinum hair and arrived at a grim conclusion.
She tried to inch backwards. It did not work.
Draco continued his leisurely attentions. His breath was warm. The fine hairs at the nape of her neck stirred gently; the arteries in her throat seemed to pulse with unusual awareness; her lips, pressed together, rose and fell with each careful breath.
The green-apple scent of her hair reached him, and something in him said, take a bite, top to bottom, just like she did —
He shivered with want, but held back.
If he added his teeth to this — if he truly let himself go — he wasn't at all certain he could stop.
"Draco," Hermione said weakly, tilting her head back. "I'm going to fall—"
She was trying, with the last of her composure, to appeal to his gentler instincts.
She genuinely wasn't very stable. She'd shifted her weight to the edge of the table, which was at an awkward height — her toes could barely reach the floor. The precarious angle had cost her most of her balance, and his persistent attention was costing her the rest of it.
She had no choice but to lean towards the only solid thing available.
"You won't fall," Draco said, pressing a kiss to her neck, then folding his arms around her waist and pulling her close — savouring her sharp, sweet gasp and the way her arms came around him with wholehearted, unconsidered trust. "I will never let you fall."
"But—" She pressed closer, every sense impossibly heightened.
She could even feel the outer seams of his trousers against her calves.
He stood perfectly still, ignoring her predicament, and continued his quiet, devastating attentions.
You went through a great deal of trouble to get yourself into this particular position.
"I had a little pity for you," Draco thought, with quiet smugness.
Hermione had only one option remaining before she embarrassed herself entirely.
She looped her arms around his neck — his smooth, fair neck, radiating all the unthinking confidence of youth.
He kissed her softly, a slow smile at the corners of his mouth.
Not enough, Hermione. Not nearly enough. Come here. Be as reckless as you were.
He waited, with secret anticipation, for that moment to return.
It arrived shortly.
Hermione decided that the tabletop was, in fact, hopelessly unstable as a perch.
He had no interest in improving her situation, and was steadily making things worse. Her capacity for rational thought had become largely theoretical.
Acting on instinct, she did the most comfortable thing available to her.
She clung to him — properly — and felt immediately more secure.
"Yes," said the cunning boy, pausing briefly to breathe against her ear. "That's exactly what you did to me. Now you understand a little of what I was going through — and this is still only a small part of it."
Good heavens.
Hermione's carefully ordered collection of Potions ingredients came crashing down in her mind, cauldron and all.
"Is there... more?" she said faintly, legs motionless, suspended somewhere between tightening her grip and not daring to.
She buried her blazing face in his neck, wanting nothing more than to not look at anything — him, herself, or any place where their bodies happened to be touching.
"Quite a lot more, to be honest," he said, stroking her hair. "I really would like you to experience every last bit of it. So you know precisely how I felt."
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the movement of his throat as he swallowed. As though he were parched.
"There may be a few spots," he continued, his voice low and unhurried, "that you might feel shy about. I've never touched them before..."
"There aren't many parts of you I haven't touched," came her very small, very muffled voice from his shoulder.
Her face was an extraordinary shade of pink.
What on earth had she done? She genuinely had no idea.
"Exactly," he said, without the slightest sympathy. "So you see, you're quite the bold, disobedient girl. Rather bolder and more disobedient than me, I'm afraid." His fingers wound through her hair — glossy, slightly wavy, as if slipping through soft seaweed. "I didn't know what to do with you last night. I still don't."
"I don't know either... Draco... I don't remember any of it..." Hermione said, dazed. "You can't hold me responsible for things I don't remember doing..."
This was very much not something a sensible girl should be doing.
And then there was the water — she could swear she still heard it dripping faintly outside the library window, the echo strangely persistent.
"I'm doing my very best to help you remember," he said, lips brushing her ear, his voice a low murmur of amusement. "You kept calling my name — you simply couldn't stop. So I think I should call yours too. Hermione... Hermione... Hermione..."
Each time he said it, there was some precise and targeted act to accompany it.
She thought she might die of mortification.
Hermione let out a small, desperate sound and gripped the back of his collar.
His voice was impossibly unfair.
Who in the world could refuse any of this?
Who could even be properly angry at him when he was being simultaneously infuriating and irresistible?
She wanted to escape and couldn't summon the energy. She wanted to pull him closer but the rhythm — warm and deliberate — was entirely his to command.
And the most shameful thing of all was that she had started this. Whatever it was she had done the night before, she had done it first.
How was it possible that the boy committing all the offences was somehow playing the victim? Outrageous. She must have been spectacularly drunk.
Hermione looked up at him helplessly, hoping he'd take pity on her — and was instantly caught.
Those were the clearest pale grey eyes in the world. Sometimes, in certain lights, they went soft — a quiet, naive lake-blue, like some improbable gem formed of ice and snow.
Now they were fully alive, bright and sharp, fixed on her with perfect attention.
His eyes were beautiful.
He was beautiful.
Almost unbearably so.
On that sculpted, often-cold face, a pair of eyes overflowing with warmth. The collision of those two things — indifferent surface and tender gaze — produced something devastating.
"Yes... I imagine it was quite painful, Hermione..." Her handsome boy looked down at her, spacing each word carefully.
Hermione made a small, wounded sound, feeling the gentle certainty of his attention in every pause.
"Remember what I suffered... don't drink so much next time..." His hand traced slowly up her spine and held her there, warm and steady. "I mean it."
"That's my choice to make..." she said, what little remained of her composure fixing itself stubbornly to her convictions. "Are you trying to control me...?"
"Hermione... don't be cross... this isn't about control..." He was like the turning of grey waves, patient and unstoppable. "You have no idea how little sense of security I have... you have no idea what I wanted to do to you..."
"I know... you wanted to do something awful..." she murmured, thinking of the marks on her ribs — thinking of him counting her heartbeats in his sleep. "When you dream... you want to do something awful to me..."
"You know — how do you know that?" A flush crept up Draco's neck.
How on earth did she know about his dreams — about all the outrageous, intoxicating things he did to her in them? And how many of those things involved the library specifically? This table in particular?
"I just know..." Hermione said, the faintest note of smugness in her voice, lifting her face in defiance, absolutely refusing to elaborate.
She was not going to admit to having done anything about it. That was too shameful. That was not like her at all.
Though if it came to it — she probably would again.
"Since you know," Draco said, with no more patience for these little games, "then you know how dangerous you were last night."
And he kissed her. Properly. Without any further preamble.
He kissed her suddenly, fiercely, capturing those stubborn, impossibly soft lips in the moment they parted in surprise.
Without ceremony, he swept an arm across the table, and books, parchment, and quills tumbled to the floor in a small, satisfying crash.
He gathered her to him, supported her back, and laid her down along the mahogany surface — and kissed her deeply.
She was like honey. The honey he had been waiting to have.
Hermione made a surprised, breathless sound as the weight of it settled over her. Then she found herself drinking from him — almost without deciding to, with a strange and thoroughgoing eagerness.
Or rather, he was the one drawing from her — drinking her in, claiming her, undoing her entirely.
Her handsome boy.
Beautiful as a poppy. Alluring and laced with danger.
After a long, silent winter of ice and restraint, he had broken free — unbridled, riotous, blazing, blooming wildly on a hot June afternoon.
Wildly beautiful. Incomparably beautiful. Almost impossible to believe.
And then he came close, and dazzled her, and undid her.
And she let him come close, and be dazzling, and undo her entirely.
Her arms had gone soft and lay at her sides. She had stopped holding on; her legs dangled freely, because there was no longer any reason to hold on. She wasn't going to fall. Her back was against the table; she was perfectly balanced. His arms were around her, solid and sure.
He made her feel safe. He always made her feel safe. And yet somewhere beneath that sureness she could sense something else in him — a stubborn, untamed wildness.
Was this the beginning of another dangerous situation?
With her heart thundering and her breath coming in gasps, Hermione had no capacity left for that question.
His cedar-scented embrace and slow, unhurried kisses filled her entirely — like something out of a dream.
He was domineering and tender at once — holding her tight, kissing her gently — and both things were true simultaneously, without contradiction.
He made her feel deeply satisfied and, in the same breath, faintly unsatisfied, as though she were still waiting for something she couldn't name.
She didn't know what she was waiting for. She only knew that she could have kissed him forever, and that there was absolutely no reason not to.
Such an absurdly lovely boy. Why not?
After a long while, Draco ended the kiss — lifting his head to look down at her flushed face and glassy eyes, cheeks rosy, breath still catching.
"Those dangerous lips," he said softly, studying her. "Those dangerous eyes. Those dangerous legs — especially the legs." He gave her a gentle, testing pinch, and was rewarded with a sharp, self-conscious gasp. He braced himself upright again, his voice firm but unhurried. "Hermione, you have no idea what kind of danger you can cause, or face. Carry a Sober-Up Potion with you — I've heard Gryffindors take their socialising rather seriously, and you should be prepared."
He drew her upright as he spoke, settled her properly back in her seat.
"Is that it?" Hermione looked at him with hazy eyes, blinking slowly. "Aren't you going to... do something?"
"What else would I do, Hermione?" He stroked her neck lightly and exhaled. "We're in the library."
In a very small, faint voice, barely belonging to her, she said, "Those outrageous things—"
At which point, Hermione suspected, her better judgement had made a running start and leapt straight into a puddle.
The boy in front of her appeared to be experiencing a severe internal struggle — as though someone were forcing a starving creature to pass up a magnificent feast.
"Hermione Granger, this is a public library with people coming and going — and I cannot believe it is I who has to say this to you!" Draco said, with sudden heat. He grabbed her by the back of the neck, not hard, but firmly, pressing close to her ear. "What do you take me for? Some crude, tasteless beast who would — in a public place — what kind of man do you think I am? I am not a saint, I have no illusions about that. But I have never fallen to that level. Not in this life or the last."
"Is it really so serious?" Hermione blinked up at his agitated face, genuinely uncertain. "But you already... I thought you'd want..."
She had thought he would want to count heartbeats through fabric, or lift her jumper and leave another mark along her ribs. He'd done as much before...
"I want to, obviously—" Draco said, struggling with himself, burying his face in her hair and speaking in a muffled rush. "But not here. Not like this. You deserve better than that."
He had wanted, for a moment, to carry on — all the way to the end. Until she was entirely wrapped around him, calling his name in that particular way. Until they'd left a spectacular mess of the mahogany table.
But he couldn't bear to treat her that carelessly.
She was not a casual girl. He refused to treat her like one.
The more Draco Malfoy came to understand that he was in love with Hermione Granger, the more everything shifted.
He had become greedier, and simultaneously more careful.
Greedier — because he didn't just want her. He wanted her heart. He wanted her soul. Not a temporary possession, but something with eternity as its measure.
More careful — because when he understood that purely results-driven thinking didn't work, he had to think about every step of the process. The long-term consequences. Every detail.
He could not allow her to have a bad experience for the sake of a single unrestrained moment.
Hermione Granger deserved the best. Nothing could be rushed or mishandled.
Not here. Not like this.
He needed somewhere cleaner. More private. Somewhere safe.
And before anything — before he even thought of removing her school robes, he needed to find her a bed that was suitably expensive and comfortable. Draco thought, head slightly spinning, pressing his face into the fragrant ends of her hair. He vaguely recalled her complaining, while drunk, that the attic bed was uncomfortable and she couldn't sleep.
His girl — delicate and precious — deserved far better than to be tumbled carelessly on a mahogany table as if she were some trivial diversion.
She was a treasure. The rarest sort of treasure — the kind you only found after exhausting every last scrap of luck in two lifetimes. He inhaled her scent with careful tenderness, kissed her hair, and tried to calm the restless, clamouring thing inside him.
Hermione listened to this with a mixture of understanding and considerable confusion — not quite grasping that the "outrageous things" they were each picturing were not the same thing at all.
She was thinking: it's only counting heartbeats. What's all the fuss about?
"Why are you being so contradictory today," she said, lifting her head to study his flushed face, "just to teach me to drink less?"
"Of course," Draco said, somewhat breathlessly, studying her just as intently — unsure whether to hold her closer or give her room.
He settled on gathering her carefully into his arms and letting her find her own comfortable position.
"Otherwise, Hermione," he said quietly, "do you think I have no self-control whatsoever?"
He did, rather obviously, have almost none where she was concerned. But he would sooner be Transfigured into a Flobberworm than admit that.
Her curious gaze made him uncomfortable. He glanced briefly at the chandelier, severing the connection between them for a moment.
"I suppose you're right," Hermione said, deflating slightly. "You're not even moved by Veelas. Your standards are impossibly high. You can obviously handle me without any difficulty."
Everything he had done — all that dazzling, disorienting, thoroughly unfair behaviour — was probably just an instructive exercise. An educational approach.
She felt as though she had bitten into something very sweet and found a hollow centre. A small, unreasonable wave of sadness moved through her.
"Well — from a certain angle," Draco said, catching her tone immediately. "Didn't I say you were beautiful?"
"I don't recall you saying that—" she said softly.
He felt a flicker of irritation that was mostly directed at himself.
It was as though he had to take a knife to his own chest just to make this infuriating, forgetful girl a little happier.
"I said it the night of the Christmas ball," he said, meeting her eyes directly and refusing, with some effort, to look away. "I said you were beautiful."
He held her gaze and said, quietly, "You are the only beauty in my heart."
Hermione looked at him in surprise, and found an unfamiliar seriousness in his expression.
He held her gaze, shy and steady, the tips of his ears burning.
In that instant, she knew he meant it.
He found her beautiful.
Not merely pretty. Beautiful. The rich, complex, singular kind of beautiful he'd been describing all afternoon.
He meant her.
Struck by the weight of that — the deep, overwhelming recognition of it — Hermione Granger recovered some of the "courage" she had been theorising about all afternoon, though whether she deployed it in the correct direction was a matter of some debate.
On this damp evening, with the storm finally easing, she looked into those clear, shy, luminous grey eyes — and felt a sudden, absolute rush of love.
She leaned in once more. Pressed her lips to his, offering them to him.
Her mind had, apparently, forgotten everything.
Her body, however, had not.
She was kissing him with a skill and a thoroughness that she had not consciously developed, her fingers finding the buttons of his shirt with unhurried precision.
Before the startled boy could think what to do, she had succeeded.
She took her time.
He sighed, deeply content.
Wave after wave of sweet torment.
Draco, thoroughly undone, reflected that he didn't much mind if she kept this up until it killed him.
At least, he thought, even if we can't go further today, at least she can feel for herself that the word "thin" does not quite apply to him...