"Why do they keep staring at me?" Hermione put down her book and asked Ginny, puzzled.
The two best friends were sitting in armchairs in the Gryffindor common room, bathed in warm sunlight streaming through the windows.
Hermione loved the sunshine; it seemed to melt away the last of winter's chill.
To her surprise, the gazes directed at her from all directions were even more intense than the midday sun. Coupled with the whispers and giggles all around, even Hermione Granger — the Gryffindor student renowned for her ability to concentrate in any environment — finally sensed something was amiss.
"Need I say more?" Ginny said. "They're talking about you and Malfoy."
"Me and him—" Hermione asked in surprise. "What does it have to do with them?"
"Oh, Hermione, do you think everyone's blind?" Ginny rolled her eyes. "He risked his life to pull you out of the Black Lake. Who in Slytherin — in all of Hogwarts — wasn't shocked? Of course people are going to assume there's something between you. You can't go on sneaking around like before."
"What do you mean, sneaking around? We simply value our privacy! We're just — very shy!" Hermione retorted.
"Yes, very shy," Ginny said with a grin. "I can't forget the kiss you gave him in broad daylight behind the medical tent, without a care in the world."
"Oh dear, I was a little carried away," Hermione said, her face slightly flushed. "Let's not talk about it."
"Even if I don't bring it up, someone else will! So many people saw it — the champions, the hostages, the referees — word will spread, guaranteed." Ginny's eyes gleamed mischievously. "I'd wager you two have properly made up, haven't you?"
"Yes. But what business is it of theirs?" Hermione said, blushing. "Can't they just let us have some peace?"
"Not a chance. Think about all the gossip before the Yule Ball, and that was just about who was taking whom to dance. Jumping into the Black Lake to save someone is far more exciting — it gives the students of Hogwarts endless material to chew over. I've already heard people speculating about whether Cho Chang and Cedric are dating, and others claiming Harry and Ron are a couple — and people actually believe it!" Ginny's expression darkened slightly as she said this.
"Who on earth would think that? They're just close friends — isn't that a bit of a leap?" Hermione was thoroughly astonished.
"Never underestimate people's imaginations. There's even a Harry-and-Ron series of novels — The Boy Behind the Warrior — circulating around Hogwarts!" Ginny said with visible distaste. "To be honest, I flipped through it the other day, and the plot isn't half bad. I need to find Ron a girlfriend to put an end to any of that. Do you think he fancies anyone?"
"I couldn't say for certain," Hermione replied. "He did make rather a mess of things with Padma Patil at the Ball..."
"Yes, that prat! Is there no girl he's actually interested in?" Ginny pressed.
"Well, now that you mention it, I think he's been quite taken with Madam Rosmerta lately," Hermione admitted after a moment's thought.
"That won't end well," Ginny said, eyes darting around. "Still, it gives us something to work with. He clearly has a type."
"And there's Fleur Delacour," Hermione added. "He goes completely glassy-eyed around her."
"I know — he gawped at her like a Niffler spotting gold. Fleur Delacour — that self-important Beauxbatons champion! I never much liked her. She complained that the food at Hogwarts was too greasy and had no manners whatsoever," Ginny said bluntly. "She's probably only tolerable because of her Veela blood."
"Yes, she can be dreadfully rude. She complained about the décor during the Ball — especially the suits of armour — loudly enough that I could hear her from the next table," Hermione said. "But you never seemed to hold such a grudge against her before. Is your poor impression of her perhaps because she kissed Harry by the Black Lake yesterday?"
"That — that's beside the point!" Ginny flushed and quickly turned her fire on Hermione. "The point is, none of you who surfaced from the Black Lake will escape scrutiny. Every little thing you do will be gossip fodder for months. It's already started — you've already felt it, haven't you?"
"Yes, though it's rather unpleasant," Hermione murmured. "We're like performers in a sideshow, surrounded by a crowd. Why must they fixate on all this nonsense?"
"Can you blame people for being curious? Everyone saw someone leap into the Black Lake to rescue you. You can't expect them to accept a half-hearted, half-defined explanation." Ginny posed the probing question plainly. "What will you say when someone asks how you'd describe your relationship? Study partners? Ordinary friends? Very good friends? Which is it, Hermione — honestly, what are you two?"
Hermione was lost for words.
"Truthfully, I don't know," she admitted at last, her voice quiet. "I don't know what we are — we've never actually sat down and talked about it properly."
After their brief closeness over Christmas, she had been too flustered and too busy arguing to sort out what they were actually doing. Then had come the fierce row that neither of them had anticipated, followed by a gruelling month of cold shoulders and pointed glances.
They hadn't yet managed to define anything.
Hermione knew that her feelings for him had remained unchanged — if anything, more intense than before. Yes, they had made up; they were speaking again, and he had pulled her from the Black Lake and kissed her on the shore. She could sense his warmth towards her. But what had that look of torment on his face meant, just before she'd jumped? Had their arguments shaken something in him? Were his feelings still as strong?
"Think of all the girls who'd set their sights on Malfoy — anyone still put out about it will be looking for a reason to question you," Ginny said mercilessly, ticking things off on her fingers. "Then there are the gossipy Hufflepuffs, and the Gryffindors and Slytherins who've never approved of your friendship in the first place. Quite a crowd is curious about you two. So, shy, privacy-conscious Hermione Granger — the confused girl who still can't define her own relationship — are you ready to face the questions?"
"Clearly not." Hermione glanced at the students around her, all of them clearly itching to come over, and said warily, "Ginny, I think I'll go to the library. It's too noisy here."
"Off you go, then!" Ginny teased. "Find a quiet corner and have a proper talk with your boyfriend about this."
"Ginny!" Hermione said indignantly. "He's not my boyfriend — not yet!"
"I don't believe that for a second," Ginny said, giving her a knowing look as she hurried away.
---
The boy in question was having a private conversation with Sirius Black in the Defence Against the Dark Arts office.
"...That's how it happened. When we arrived, the Crouch house was empty — no one alive — except for Quirrell's body. Dumbledore said he died of exposure," Sirius said.
"He simply died like that?" Draco asked, disbelief plain on his face.
"His fate was sealed the moment he chose to become Voldemort's servant. Sharing a body with Voldemort caused him irreversible damage. Death was only ever a matter of time," Sirius said coldly.
"Must you use that name?" Draco asked irritably.
"Furthermore," Sirius continued, completely ignoring the correction, "the soul fragment on the back of Quirrell's head has vanished."
"Vanished?" Draco couldn't help himself. "What does that mean?"
"It means Voldemort may have disappeared entirely." Sirius was stubborn about the name, more so than Draco. "There is no trace of his soul remaining in or around the Crouch house."
"To simply vanish without a trace, without causing a stir — that's unlike him," Draco frowned. "I'm worried—"
"In that situation, no one could have helped him," Sirius said. "His soul was barely clinging on. Even if he wanted to escape, he couldn't have gone far on so little magic. And there were no magical fluctuations within a hundred miles, nor any trace of a soul — Dumbledore confirmed it himself."
The unexpected good news brought Draco a strange mixture of relief and unreality, as though the ground beneath him had shifted.
Is that all?
Is the fight against the Dark Lord truly over?
A confused, fragile joy welled up in his chest.
He wanted desperately to tell Hermione — to see her smile.
"But — the ring," he said, clenching his fist, forcing himself to surface from that relief. "There's still a ring we haven't found."
He turned the matter over carefully in his mind, searching for any remaining loose threads, trying to confirm beyond doubt that "the Dark Lord has completely disappeared."
"A Horcrux of that kind is extraordinarily rare and difficult to track down. This won't be resolved in a day. Is it possible the ring never held a soul to begin with — or that its soul was destroyed long ago, the way Regulus secretly destroyed the locket?" Sirius asked.
"We can't pin our hopes on someone else having already dealt with it," Draco said. "That's wishful thinking."
"Agreed. Which is why we won't abandon the search. But — at least today, I think we can breathe and celebrate." Sirius raised a glass of Firewhisky toward him, a rare flicker of warmth on his face.
Draco raised his soda water and clinked glasses, his expression blank.
Had the Dark Lord truly disappeared?
He had used a Soul-Binding spell to anchor the Dark Lord's spirit to Quirrell's petrified skull — by all reasoning, he shouldn't have been able to slip free. Yet Draco couldn't be certain whether dark magic that profound contained hidden failsafes, or whether the Dark Lord had possessed some trump card capable of breaking the enchantment.
"Wait — Barty Crouch. There's no trace of the Dark Lord on him, is there?" Draco suddenly remembered.
"You're thorough, I'll give you that," Sirius said approvingly, then shrugged. "But no. I checked. There's nothing. He's clean — cleaner than a newborn — with nothing left but a thoroughly shattered mind."
"Where is he now?" Draco pressed.
"Cornelius Fudge has taken him into custody. He intended to get information out of Crouch, but that's nearly impossible now — the man's mind is in ruins. He keeps babbling about preparations for the Quidditch World Cup and the Triwizard Tournament."
"I suspect the Minister isn't best pleased," Draco said.
"Pleased? His face was like a thundercloud. Fudge has decided to send Crouch to St. Mungo's. After all, a senior Ministry official who was placed under the Imperius Curse and attacked a Triwizard champion — the international fallout would be severe. Fudge looked thoroughly rattled, and I'd wager he's currently doing everything he can to smooth things over with the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang delegations before this lands in the press."
"If Fudge knew who had actually attacked Crouch, he'd be furious, wouldn't he?" Draco asked with a careful look. "Did you tell him?"
"Not yet. Given that Voldemort's soul appears to have dissipated, it all seems rather moot. Fudge still believes Quirrell went mad and attacked Barty Crouch. And even if he did know the truth, he wouldn't reveal it — he'd bury it. I've seen the man up close more than once, in Azkaban. He's a hypocrite and a coward, and he won't touch anything that might damage his reputation."
"What makes you so sure?" Draco asked.
"The moment news of 'Voldemort's near-return' spreads, it would be a devastating blow to his political record. He fears nothing more than being called incompetent. I'd sooner believe he'll try to smother it entirely. If Crouch regains enough coherence to start talking, Fudge might arrange for a Dementor to pay him a quiet visit."
Draco couldn't suppress a shudder at the flatness in Sirius's voice.
He made a statement that terrible with such casual ease — what had those years in Azkaban done to him?
Sirius noticed the boy's expression — the look that never quite relaxed, even now.
The worry hadn't left his face. Hearing good news, his first instinct had not been relief or a broad smile, but a reluctance to lower his guard.
In that moment, Sirius understood something clearly:
Draco Malfoy is not like Harry.
When Harry had heard the same news, his first reaction was relief and a wide grin. He'd asked questions, of course — but he hadn't shown this unconscious, ingrained anxiety.
Draco, by contrast, seemed to have made a habit of bracing for the worst. He lacked the boyish willingness to simply accept good fortune that Harry possessed — and at times he seemed more worn and guarded than Harry, who had genuinely suffered. It was baffling.
A young master raised in luxury should be carefree. So why did he look at everything through such a dark lens? Why was he always like a startled creature, flinching from happy endings as though they were traps?
This aloof Slytherin boy seemed to regard joy as something fundamentally out of reach for him — something meant for other people.
Sirius watched him, turning it over in his mind, and arrived at nothing conclusive. Meanwhile, Draco remained submerged in some private anguish, not a trace of a smile on his face.
Sirius leaned back in his armchair and said, in a deliberately easy tone, "That's it. It's over. Draco Malfoy — go enjoy the weather. Play Quidditch. Fall in love. Go and get yourself lost in the Forbidden Forest. Stop looking so grim. He's in the past. You're allowed to be happy. Aren't you tired of carrying that face around with you? Learn to breathe, smile more, and live your life."
Something in those words reached Draco. A flicker of warmth, unexpected and unfamiliar.
He hadn't the faintest idea how Sirius had seen it so clearly.
For four years since his rebirth, anxiety had been his constant companion. Every morning, the first thought upon waking was the same: the Dark Lord was drawing closer. The day the Malfoys would fall was approaching. The day Hermione would be hurt was approaching.
How could he have simply enjoyed his life under that weight?
He had been restless and sleepless, consumed by a single question: how to prevent the tragedy he already knew was coming?
Something had to be done — always, constantly — or he felt he was squandering his second chance at life and betraying every sacrifice he had made. If he spent even a single day without working toward some plan or precaution, he felt as though he were inviting disaster.
Was he tired? Tired. Very tired. Unbearably tired.
There had been times he had come close to breaking entirely.
He lived in a world where no one truly knew him — not even his parents — carrying memories and secrets no one else could share. He knew the fates of the vibrant people around him, knew how some of them would end, and felt powerless to change all of it. That helplessness gnawed at him constantly.
He was neither a hero nor a saint. He was a selfish, self-preserving, thoroughly ordinary person who already carried more than enough. He had tried to numb himself, to hide behind indifference.
He was often afraid to change. No one had taught him how. He had been, for so long, a thoroughly terrible person.
He was often afraid to sacrifice anything, terrified that even his best efforts would not be enough to protect the people he cared for.
Yet sometimes, when his carefully maintained composure caught a glimpse of an innocent face, his heart would ache without warning, and he would not know what to do with it. He had never had a strong will. Sudden waves of self-hatred would crash over him — that he had been so wrong, so unforgivable. There were times he had considered giving up entirely. Times he had been ready, quite simply, to die.
But gradually, something had changed. He had become attached. Unwilling. He could no longer bear to let go.
Hermione — she had pulled him back, time and again.
Just as she had in the Black Lake, swimming toward him as if drawn by something she couldn't name, pulling him back from the edge.
She was different from everyone else. She was his burden, his lingering regret, and his last attachment to the world.
As she crossed his mind, a flicker of life returned to his face.
His delicate little rose.
Perhaps the only moments of true joy in his life were the ones spent with her.
Her presence was a remedy — her warmth easing the ache of his rebirth, her sweetness cutting through the bitterness he carried.
She always said he had saved her. What she didn't know was that she had been saving him all along. Reaching for him, steadily, without even knowing it.
She had always believed in him — believed beyond what he deserved. That faith had nudged him, slowly and against his will, into becoming a slightly better version of himself. Like a snail tentatively stretching out its horns. Like a clam, beginning, cautiously, to open.
---
Draco stepped out of Sirius's office with a sudden, urgent need to see her.
It felt as though he hadn't seen her in a year — even though it had only been yesterday, when he'd pulled her from the Black Lake and she had kissed him.
But something was different now. Things that had always seemed more urgent — more important than his own heart — had, for once, stepped aside.
Their closeness had always been brief, restrained, uncertain. He had wanted nothing more than to be near her, while simultaneously fearing that his mess of a life would drag her down with him.
He had carried too much for too long. He had always been afraid that weight would break her — that even her thorns couldn't protect her from what he might bring.
No one could hurt her. Not even him.
But now — for the first time — a different kind of future was unfurling before him. A world without the Dark Lord. A world where the Malfoys would not fall. A bright, open, possible world that he desperately wanted to share with her.
He wanted to do so many things.
He wanted to show her the vast rose gardens in a corner of Malfoy Manor — the ones that bore her name — even knowing perfectly well that none of them compared to her.
He wanted to ask her to dance with him again, to watch her spin and bloom under the light.
He wanted to take her to the Malfoy family library — the finest private collection in Britain — and see her face when she realised what was in it. She would be completely lost in it within minutes. She would probably never want to leave.
A childlike smile broke across his face. Draco took out the Marauder's Map and, just as he'd expected, found the girl wandering among the stacks of the Hogwarts Library.
He had to find her immediately. His heart hammered with the particular, ridiculous joy of someone who has found something precious. His footsteps quickened through the corridors, up the stairs, past the library entrance — then slowed near their usual study corner, until he appeared silently before her table.
The fireplace was burning cheerfully. Outside, the wind was cold; inside, warm. The girl had draped her robe over the back of her chair and sat upright at the table, white shirt and Gryffindor tie, working through a pile of Arithmancy and Divination exercises.
She felt the shadow fall across her parchment, looked up, and caught him with her bright, cat-like eyes — surprised by his sudden appearance.
"Draco?" Her cheeks flushed slightly. "You startled me."
"Hermione Granger, I need to ask you something." Draco pressed down the surge of feeling in his chest and forced his voice to sound steady.
"What is it?" Hermione asked, aiming for casual, her quill still moving across a column of calculations.
The bright-eyed boy fell silent. He looked at her — at the ink stain on her finger, at her dark hair — and opened his mouth. No sound came out.
Hermione glanced at him again. "Why do you look so serious? Is something wrong?"
"It's nothing." Draco loosened his collar, his mouth dry.
It's too warm in here, he told himself. The heat was making him dizzy.
He tossed his outer robe onto the armchair beside him, revealing a white shirt that matched hers exactly.
This seemed like it might help. It didn't. If anything, the warmth had spread to his cheeks.
"Are you alright?" She couldn't help looking at him again. He had an expression like a student with five minutes left in an exam and a blank parchment — visible tension, thinly veiled panic.
"Fine," he replied mechanically, his voice as flat and hollow as the Bloody Baron's.
He swallowed, trying to organise his thoughts. His mind went blank.
The room was quiet except for the cheerful crackling of the fire.
How should he start? Should he ease into it, or be direct?
Was the library too casual a setting for this? Should he have found somewhere more formal?
But she loved the library. Wasn't this precisely her kind of place?
Besides, the small reserve of courage he had finally scraped together was burning away by the moment. If he didn't use it now, it would be gone.
Now. He had to say it now. Draco took a breath and made up his mind.
He cleared his throat, trying to draw her attention — but his oblivious little rose had apparently grown tired of his stalling, and returned her gaze to her calculations, completely unaware of the turmoil he was in.
He stood in silence for a long moment, then moved behind her. He studied the parchment covered in figures and her thick, dark hair, and said softly, "Hermione — there's a problem that's been troubling me for a long time. Lately it's gotten to the point where I can barely eat or sleep. I was wondering — could you help me think it through?"
"Oh?" The girl finally showed some interest. She set down her quill and turned to look at him properly. "What kind of problem could possibly stump Draco Malfoy and keep him up at night? You even solved the Black Lake perfectly."
He's actually asking for help, Hermione thought, a quiet smile crossing her face. He, of all people — so gifted and so proud — humbly asking for her help. She had never expected to see this day.
"It's about a girl," he said softly, looking into those bright, stubborn, beautiful eyes.
"Oh—" Hermione's interest evaporated instantly.
A girl. He was asking her for relationship advice? Had he fallen for someone else?
Don't blame her for thinking it — his tone hadn't sounded as though he meant her. Hermione's heart clenched.
Could it be that during their argument, someone else had come along? Was that why he'd been so distant before? The thought made her face pale quickly. To hide the drop in her chest, she lowered her head again — retreating into herself — and stared at her parchment.
Stay calm, she told herself. Listen to what he has to say. You're Hermione Granger. Do your Divination homework.
She gripped her quill, and its tip scratched a jagged line of ink across the parchment.
Even if he pulled you from the bottom of the Black Lake, even if you like him — even love him — it doesn't mean he has to feel the same. You two have made no promises. And even if you couldn't help kissing him on the shore — the same way Fleur kissed Harry and Ron — it was just a natural expression of gratitude. Perfectly ordinary. Don't read into it.
She told herself this firmly, and did not look up.
Draco hated the way she withdrew.
Why did she always avoid his eyes when things turned serious? Was there anything in the world more important than these Arithmancy problems? She was like a cat wholly absorbed in her own game — completely oblivious to what was happening just behind her.
It made him uneasy. How was he meant to say something like this if she wouldn't even look at him?
"I should have said this much sooner, but I always missed the moment for one reason or another—" he began, still gazing at her hair — but she stubbornly refused to look up.
"Oh, yeah—" she said lazily, waving her quill in a vague, dismissive way.
This wouldn't do. He had to get her attention.
He wrapped an arm around her from behind, holding her gently, and scratched her chin lightly with his fingertips, as one might stroke a particularly proud, beautiful cat.
What in Merlin's name is he doing? Hermione felt an uneasy, flustered warmth flood through her. Was he confusing her with Crookshanks?
She could no longer concentrate on the parchment — he knew exactly how to get to her, the cunning boy — and in the drowsy afternoon warmth, she felt a little comfortable, a little restless, a little muddled.
The worst of it was that wherever he touched, a current seemed to wake and spread through her — and she was reminded, with grieving irritation, that she was an absolutely hopeless case where he was concerned. She had always liked his touch, even when she knew it complicated everything.
Torn and cross with herself, she gave up and turned to face him — hoping to dislodge his hand — to figure out what he was playing at.
She looked up. Her voice came out with an edge. "Draco, what are you doing? I thought you were going to tell me about this girl—"
"That girl—" Draco repeated her words softly.
He traced her features with his free hand: her brows, her nose, her cheeks, her lips; the small laugh lines beneath her eyes, the faint freckles on either side of her nose, the dimples that appeared at the corners of her mouth.
Her expression softened, and her eyes — wide, a little frightened, a little vulnerable — looked up at him. Yet she didn't pull away. She was oddly still, quietly permitting him to do this.
When had she stopped guarding herself so fiercely against him? She looked at him now with something open in her gaze, as though she had stopped bracing. Draco watched her carefully and drew from that a sliver of courage.
He needed it. This was the most un-Slytherin thing he had ever done — it was something a reckless Gryffindor might do.
Perhaps there would be storms ahead. Perhaps many things remained unresolved.
But the feeling in his chest was too strong to be contained any longer.
"That girl is you." He held her face gently in his hand and looked into her eyes.
The panic in her expression dissolved. Her vulnerability shifted into relief.
There were no other girls. She breathed out slowly.
"What — what are you trying to say?" Her face flushed, given how close they were. She tried her best to sound unconcerned, but she couldn't ignore the warmth of his hand against her cheek.
Draco gazed into her eyes, a sudden tightness in his throat. "I — I should have said this a long time ago. You know I've always been a coward. I don't speak honestly about myself easily, and I'm not good at saying what I actually feel. I'm always convinced I know best. Always imagining the bleakest possible endings. Always pessimistic."
Hermione frowned, puzzled, when she heard him say "bleak endings."
Draco smoothed the line from her brow and pressed on, while he still had the last of his courage to lay himself bare.
"I know what I am. I am selfish, proud, shallow, hypocritical, and rotten in more ways than I care to count. I have done things I'm not proud of, and I don't expect forgiveness — let alone anything so undeserved as someone's favour or affection."
This is getting more and more extraordinary, Hermione thought, staring at his earnest, melancholy face. He was tearing himself apart with some of the harshest words she'd ever heard used on a person.
Was this a confession — or a self-administered Howler? And did he genuinely believe any of it?
He was the most extraordinary boy she knew. She stared at his face and wondered whether the Black Lake water had somehow filled his head, because everything coming out of his mouth sounded like utter nonsense.
"But I still harboured a hope. You are like starlight in the dark — brighter than anything else, something that made me feel less alone, less adrift. You made me feel that there was still something worth hoping for." He paused. "Hermione — I have liked you for a very, very long time. Longer than you'd imagine."
The "I like you" at the end arrived so suddenly that it swept away all her doubts and confusion at once.
He was confessing his feelings.
Hermione slowly widened her eyes, trying to make sense of it.
Draco Malfoy was confessing his feelings to Hermione Granger.
He had once asked her to be his partner at the Yule Ball. He had jumped into the Black Lake. He had stood between her and the werewolves. He had shielded her with his own body in the chaos of the World Cup camp.
His care for her had been constant. And now he was looking at her with that frank, direct, unwavering gaze she hadn't known he was capable of.
"Would you — be with me?" Draco made himself say the words, and waited.
He reminded himself not to run away — however afraid he was — even if she refused. He had to stay.
The girl didn't speak immediately. He kept holding her face, gently and stubbornly, determined to see every shift in her expression.
Her eyes moved through surprise, embarrassment, and then — unmistakably — joy.
"Of course — of course I would!" Hermione said softly, still not quite believing it was real.
Her smile grew slowly brighter. She said, in a voice that was fond and just slightly reproachful, "I was just — Oh, Draco, you're a little silly. I can't understand why you've waited until now to say this, or why you had to lead with such an extraordinary amount of self-criticism beforehand. This has to be the most peculiar confession in the history of Hogwarts."
Draco's heart stopped. Her words struck somewhere vital — then released — and his heart began hammering at twice its usual speed.
"I'm so sorry I took so long." He smiled at her, his voice rough, his eyes filling. "I'm so glad, Hermione. I really—"
"Silly boy, there's nothing to cry about. Just kiss me — before my neck gives out in this position..." Hermione said cheerfully, patting his hand. Just as she opened her mouth to say something witty, he leaned down and kissed her.
She was enveloped in warmth.
His kisses were light and soft, full of a silky tenderness — gentle and lingering.
He kissed her as though she were something irreplaceable, with a reverence that bordered on solemnity.
She gave a small, impatient sound and, purely on instinct, pressed a little closer. A mischievous voice inside her said she wanted to see what would happen if she stopped being patient. So she parted her lips slightly and welcomed him in.
"You wicked girl," he breathed.
"Yes, that's me," she said, muffled.
How was she so endearing? Draco felt as though he were dreaming.
She had agreed so easily, so naturally — none of the ordeal he had imagined it would be.
As though he had simply always deserved this.
He held her close, not wanting to let go.
Even through his shirt, Hermione could feel his warmth. He kissed her deeply, with all the pent-up feeling of someone who had been holding themselves back for far too long.
He was careful with his grip around her neck — Draco was always afraid of holding her too tightly, always terrified of breaking something delicate — but he pulled her close, and let her continue to kiss him until she was dizzy.
The quill rolled off the table. The parchment covered in Arithmancy was in hopeless disarray.
There are things in this world more important than achieving an Outstanding, Hermione thought wistfully.
Getting Draco Malfoy's kiss, for one.