Chapter Text
If there was a feeling that Draco Malfoy was foreign to, it was humility, but life, as it often did, had a plan to change that.
Between an incomplete seventh year, which turned him into a magical school dropout, and fast-tracking his career as the youngest Death Eater (give or take one Regulus Black), he had nothing to show for himself, and that simply would not do.
Not when the Ministry wanted to make an example out of him.
No, the Ministry of Magic, in its infinite wisdom and probably to instill a tad of the aforementioned humility into him (by whatever means necessary), had decided that Draco was a child coerced into participating in a war and indoctrinated into believing he was better than anyone.
To Draco, this was nothing more than calling a spade a spade, which was a good thing, but alas, not everyone could be that self-assured—semantics and whatnot.
But no, Draco Malfoy was now the Ministry’s pet project. The first participant of their restitution and reformation 101 (aka we’re going to humble the bloody fuck out of you) efforts.
This, in a nutshell, consisted of him completing his magical education under house arrest, which would hopefully result in a long-life dose of humbleness. Or humiliation.
Tomato-tomahto.
This is where he is at present—humbled, anxious, and acutely aware of his shortcomings as an 18-year-old male whose puberty was stunted by his induction into Voldemort’s ranks and who did not partake in the pleasures of attending a coed boarding school with a severely distracted faculty.
A pity.
He was also absolutely terrified and equally excited about seeing a certain swotty witch after a whole year of fantasising about her.
You see, Draco had many secrets he trusted no one with—a fear of going bald, being short (he was not), and the fact that Hermione Granger had stopped being indifferent to him exactly four years before. The latter could have gotten him disinherited, and since he feared both his father and the possibility of being poor, it had become his most guarded secret, one he went to extreme (albeit stupid) ways to conceal. Well, maybe his second most guarded secret since there was…something else.
In the end, the whole thing had resolved itself since, luckily for him, the Dark Lord was killed, and his father was sent to Azkaban, where he no longer had any power over Draco.
Thank Merlin for small mercies.
Except now there was a bigger, more embarrassing, more delicate secret—Draco Malfoy, who had a reputation that preceded him for being a ladies’ man, was, in fact, a virgin.
It was not a big deal, really. You could say it would’ve been expected of someone in his position, sheltered and growing up with the equivalent of Puritan beliefs. This was just a small inconvenience—a minute detail if you will.
And while Draco wanted to be delusional enough to believe he had nothing to worry about, the facts were a tad different.
Hermione Granger had indeed taken an interest in him; she fancied him (A LOT) and could not wait to jump his bones.
June 1998
The room felt cold, and not even his thick outer robes helped the shivering down his spine or the numbness in his limbs.
He was sitting there, immobile. It was his trial, after all, but he could not believe what he was watching and hearing, and the pounding his heart was making in his ears threatened to muffle her words. He tried to pay attention.
“Mr. Malfoy grew up, was raised in bigotry, and was a victim of his upbringing as much as I became one because of the beliefs upheld by pureblood society.”
The way her mouth moved, the melody of her voice, her fucking words were arrows fired straight into his groin. She looked so bloody beautiful, so poised and eloquent (even if he missed half of what she said), and the combination of all those things was doing things to him. So much so that he could feel himself growing hard under his robes.
Gods, he was pathetic, but that was the effect Hermione Granger had on him. He was enthralled by her presence, overcome with her decision to come to his defense, to speak on his behalf, to help him. HIM!
Granger finished her testimony and gave him a small smile, and his heart took a leap (while the bulge between his legs twitched). He just gaped at her and stared the rest of the trial at the back of her curls, imagining an ungodly amount of things he would do while tangling his fingers in her hair—not that there was, as far as he knew, any accuracy to his musings, since he was a bloody fucking virgin. Still, Draco could just imagine everything he thought about would feel ten times better.
At some point, he became aware that it was Potter’s turn to speak and that he may have mentioned something about how Draco had been manipulated into joining Voldemort and forced to be marked. He nodded just in case someone questioned whether he was paying attention.
And just like that, it was over, and he was forcibly taken from thinking about Granger and made to listen to what decision was reached.
The Wizengamot concluded that he had been pressured into joining the Dark Lord’s cause and they would not ruin his life by sending him to Azkaban. He had been, by all accounts, innocent but not innocent enough to walk free. Draco had been sentenced to a year of house arrest and mandated to complete his eighth year under the tutelage of several professors appointed by the Ministry (but funded by the Malfoy vaults). After that, he would have to take his N.E.W.T.s at Hogwarts.
There could be worse fates, and Draco accepted the fact that everything he had fantasised about Granger would have to be on hold. Not that there was any chance of him ever accomplishing any of that with her, but it made all his recent daydreams even more unattainable.
“Come this way, Mr. Malfoy,” he heard one of the aurors say, and that ended his reverie for good. It was time to face reality.
“Wait!”
His head snapped, and he saw Granger running his way. Draco looked at the auror as if asking, “Is she coming this way? To me?” But the wizard had no idea what the panicked look on his face meant and just shrugged.
“Could I have a word with Dra—Mr. Malfoy before you take him away? In private,” Hermione asked.
“I’m not supposed to leave him out of my sight, Miss Granger,” the man responded.
“I helped save the Wizarding World against Voldemort, Auror Fogs—
What is bloody happening? And how does she know the auror’s name?
Draco gaped and looked between the auror and Hermione, completely shocked by what was taking place.
“I think you can trust me being alone with him for a couple of minutes,” she said and flashed him a winning smile.
The minx. Using her war hero status to get her way. Gods, she’s fit.
Draco coughed, choking on his own saliva. He needed to get a fucking grip.
Auror Fogs looked him up and down. He determined Granger could probably take him down if the need arose.
What a sight to behold would that be.
Draco had to hold back a swoon.
Fogs nodded. “Fine. I’ll be waiting for him outside,” the auror said and left, but not before giving Draco another once-over look.
It was imperative that Draco got the words out before he became too hot and bothered to even speak.
“Granger, listen—”
Her autumn eyes were on him, so warm and welcoming that he felt beckoned by them, transfixed by the golden flecks swimming in their irises. He had to blink several times to clear his mind and say his piece.
“Thank you. You didn’t have to do this—thank you. I would have understood if you had chosen to testify against me after all the pain me and my family caused you, but you didn’t. I—I am sorry—more than sorry. I don’t know how to articulate how much I wish I could take back everything I ever said to you or I could stop myself from believing that you were not worthy of your magic or inferior to someone like me. I—”
“You did something to me,” she interrupted. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. At the manor, you tried to help me while Bellatrix was…”
Hermione didn’t finish, but her eyes didn’t leave his face, and his own widened in surprise.
“I…I tried to shield your mind from the pain. I didn’t know—I didn’t think it had worked,” Draco said, gaping at her once again. It had been a last-minute decision, a desperate attempt to lessen her suffering.
He could not bear to see her like that, squirming under the weight of his aunt’s body, bleeding from the carving on her arm, screaming from the pain.
“You—you never stopped screaming,” he said almost in a whisper.
“I was genuinely scared. I didn’t understand what was happening, but I thought it was better if your aunt didn’t know I was no longer hurting.”
He shook his head. “This amazing, beautiful, bloody brilliant witch,” he thought.
“I wouldn’t have expected anything else from the great Hermione Granger,” Draco said and could not help the smile on his face.
Hermione smiled back. “Well, the great Hermione Granger wanted to thank you.”
“Please don’t. I don’t deserve it,” Draco said, and his voice trembled.
“It was very brave.”
“Brave?” he thought. Brave was not the word he would use to describe his half-arse attempt at protecting her mind.
“It was nothing of the sort. It was improvised stupidity at most.”
Hermione lifted her chin. “I beg to differ. It was brave and clever, quick thinking, and significantly dulled the pain. It was a massive risk, and she could have killed you–”
“It was worth the risk,” he blurted out when he didn’t mean to.
Draco was aware that it was not wise to lay bare before someone and give them such power over oneself. There was simply no way of knowing who you could really trust or who would use it against you. It was the Slytherin way.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice silky and full of emotion.
Draco shook his head.
“I’m sorry you won’t be at Hogwarts next term, but I’m glad you won’t be going to Azkaban.”
He chuckled. “That makes two of us.”
"For what it’s worth, I can’t wait for your sentence to be over,” she said and got closer to him.
Draco didn’t know what was happening or how she was now in his space, close to him, closer than she had ever been. And in a moment, everything had changed—her lips were on his, soft and warm and sweet. His eyes closed, surrendering to the complete abandonment of logic and what was real or not. All sound disappeared except for the beating of his heart drumming in his ears while a tingly sensation traveled to every part of his body.
This was by no means Draco’s first kiss. He was inexperienced, but not that inexperienced.
Even with his limited knowledge, he recognized this was THE KISS, because it came from her. He might as well have “Property of Hermione Granger” stamped on his forehead because that’s exactly how he felt.
His body had felt it, too, and when her lips left his mouth, he tilted in her direction, followed her, sought her taste and her warmth and the feeling of her skin on his.
Then, he remembered where he was, and his eyes opened reluctantly. Draco stood up straight, as best as he could given his circumstances. He was flustered and dizzy and so fucked.
Hermione had not come out unscathed—her cheeks were flushed, and he could see how the colour spread on her chest.
Draco swallowed.
She bit her lip and smiled at him. “See you after the NEWTs. I’ll be counting the days,” she said and then left.
He was stunned, rooted to the spot, unable to move his limbs or utter a single word.
Hermione Granger had kissed him. Kissed HIM.
In the distance, he heard the door close and open again and the faint sound of Auror Fogs’s voice saying something, but he couldn’t really understand what had been said or if the auror was talking to him. He figured he had to do something and managed to nod to whatever he was being told. Draco nodded again and felt himself being dragged or pulled or pushed or something while the world was spinning around him.
Granger had kissed him. Bloody hell.
Then he blinked and was crossing the fireplace at the manor with the auror. The words, terms of sentence, and tomorrow were said (among others), and Draco managed to acknowledge them by nodding profusely. His limbs, which had regained movement at some point, moved on their own accord and made him sit while he digested the fact that Hermione Fucking Granger had kissed him.
The euphoria of the kiss didn’t last as long as he would’ve liked it, although it did carry him through that night.
Whatever the auror had said was anyone’s guess, but Auror Fogs returned the next day to explain the terms of his house arrest.
Summed up, it was complete and utter hippogriff shite.
As stipulated by the Wizengamot, he could not leave the grounds of the manor and could not have visitors except for the tutors, which hardly counted as such. He had to complete his eighth-year studies, which he must start within a week, and take his N.E.W.T.s, which he was expected to excel at.
As for communicating with the outside world, he could receive as much correspondence as he liked (as if he had that many people who wanted to write to him) but could only send out two letters a week.
Draco felt he was being treated as a common criminal, which, granted, he was, but he didn’t pose a threat to anyone. But alas, there was no point in arguing; he would take what he could get.
***
Three days later, during his first week of mandated classes, he was spiraling during his Arithmancy lesson. Yes, his trial had been just a few days before, but they might have as well been 30 or 300. All he knew was there were all too many.
They had shared a kiss. She kissed him, and he kissed her, and then she was gone.
And just like that, he was questioning everything.
Did it really happen?
Had he imagined the whole thing?
How was he supposed to spend a whole year thinking about it?
What if the memory faded away, and he forgot about it?
Should he procure a pensieve?
What if she forgot it? What if she met someone and did not care to see him after the N.E.W.T.s?
“Mr. Malfoy,” Professor Ganders said. “Are you here with us?” he asked, tapping his temple with a finger. “You look…unwell.”
“I—I apologize, professor. I fear breakfast did not sit well with me. May I take a break?” He asked, always the proper git.
“Of course, let’s take a 15-minute break and reconvene here.”
Draco nodded and made his way to the courtyard, hoping some fresh air would help, when he heard a pop.
“Master Malfoy,” the (paid!) house elf said.
“Yes, Blinkey.”
“Sir, Blinkey has some letters for you, sir,” she said, and she handed him three envelopes with the Ministry’s emblem stamped on them.
“Thank you, Blinkey,” he said, eying the envelopes while walking to find a shaded spot where he could sit.
Draco opened the first one and felt the heat creep up his face. There was another envelope inside—the bloody Ministry was screening his mail, and it made him seethe.
He was cross for the sake of being cross because it was expected, of course. It was a given they would read whatever was sent to him, but it didn’t make it any less infuriating.
The anger did not last long. Reluctantly, he let a smile grow on his features as he read who had written him; at the bottom of the page, he saw the signatures of Pansy, Theo, and Blaise, and suddenly, his day took a turn for the better.
Since he didn’t have much time to read the parchment, he skimmed through the letter and moved to the next one. It was from Greg, who was serving a similar sentence to Draco’s.
Finally, he moved on to the last one, the thickest envelope of the three, and for some reason, his heart started beating faster.
It was a curious thing, really. He would’ve never called himself a hopeful person. He had no reason to be; his recent past had made him jaded, tainted him.
If anything, he was a pessimist, the grump to anyone’s sunshine, and yet, there he was—face hot, heart drumming in his ears, fingers slightly trembling as he opened the Ministry’s envelope and retrieved what was inside.
The smaller envelope was crisp and full to the brim, with the parchments folded inside. It was addressed to Draco L. Malfoy in a beautiful, delicate penmanship, but there was no sender.
He licked his lips as he took out the letter, but it did nothing to help the parched feeling in his mouth.
Draco would curse himself for letting hope bloom in his chest. Disappointment was nothing new to him, but it would crush him if this were not from whom he expected it to be—from whom he wanted it to be.
There was no way to hide it; he had to admit that he had been desperate before, albeit for entirely different reasons. Now, he desperately wanted a sign, proof that everything that had happened was not the product of the overly active imagination of a rabid virgin.
As he unfolded the letter and scanned the pages, a cool sensation of relief washed over him. Four parchments later, the name he longed to see was at the bottom of the page.
The weeks turned into months. There were several constants in Draco’s life at the present that he could always count on that made the end of his ordeal something tangible—the passage of time, the progress made in class, and the letters, both from his friends and Hermione.
Without fail, they arrived twice a week, and twice a week, he made sure to reply.
Two seemed to have become his number, and two things happened simultaneously: he got to live a life at Hogwarts vicariously through his friends, and he got to know Granger as he had never allowed himself before.
Every letter she sent was read more than once, and every new detail he learned about her was filed away for future use–for when they met again.
And one day, the future arrived.
***
June 1999
May had brought with it the last days of spring, more hours of sunshine, and with the end of the month came the conditional end of his house arrest.
The month flew by, and the night before he was set to leave for Hogwarts and complete the final requirement to fulfill his sentence, panic settled in Draco’s bones.
It was one thing to speak to Granger through letters. It was easier. He always knew what to say, how to reply to her questions, how to debate on whatever she wanted to take an opposing viewpoint (for weeks at a time), but it would be something completely different to have her there in the flesh.
The next morning, he would Floo into Hogwarts and see her after their last encounter at the Wizengamot.
Sure, he had come to know her, but with the Ministry reading his letters, it was not as if they had been in a position to talk about what they wanted or what they were.
What were they doing? Was this a friendship? Would she wanted it to be something else?
If the kiss had been any indication, then yes, Granger definitely wanted to be more than his friend, but he didn’t want to assume, and the last thing he had intended to do was getting his hopes up.
But it was too late for that.
What was she expecting of him?
Fuck!
Fuck, indeed.
What was she expecting of him? He didn’t know how to…he didn’t know a lot of things when it came to the opposite sex. Whatever he had done with Pansy was not enough to even begin to comprehend what girls liked or wanted or needed from a bloke.
Even worse, it wasn’t as if he knew anything about Hermione’s experience, but she was a knowledgeable person, and he was sure her confidence indicated she was not as inexperienced as he was.
Draco got up from his bed and rummaged through one of the drawers in his chest. The vial of Dreamless Sleep was drained, and he settled back beneath his sheets.
No more questions to ask in the middle of the night.
Whatever he needed—wanted to know about what type of relationship he and Granger had would have to wait until the morning.
He was bound to find out regardless.
***
When Draco woke up, the sky was still dark, so much for the potion that would have helped him sleep.
The start of his morning was a blur, and before he knew it, he was crossing the Floo at the Headmistress’s office and back at Hogwarts.
Greetings were said, acknowledgments were made, and apologies were uttered once again, but Draco could only think about seeing Hermione again.
For some reason, being back at Hogwarts just intensified his confusion. With no actual definition of what was happening between them, it was easy for him to revert and convince himself that Granger didn’t harbour any feelings for him except for a friendship.
Or maybe she just pitied him. She was, after all, the patron saint of loss causes, and “Draco Malfoy, Junior Death Eater” was a perfect fit among categories such as “Mistreatment of House-elves” or “Equal Rights for Werewolves.”
A sigh escaped from him as he made his way into the Great Hall, feeling more deflated by the second. Things could’ve changed in a year, and he was painfully aware he had no claim over her. There was always the possibility that she could’ve met someone, and the thought alone made his chest ache. But he had no time to sulk.
Out of nowhere, Pansy Parkinson’s small frame flung her arms around him, causing him to lose his balance.
She was laughing, happier than Draco had ever seen her before, and her laughter was contagious.
Draco hugged her back and was immediately attacked by Theo and Blaise, who tried to lift him off the ground as they hollered his name.
“What the fuck is all this? Put me down, you twats,” he said between laughs, his face hurting from smiling so much. Gods, he had missed them.
He had missed Hogwarts, too, and felt like a kid again with no care in the world.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed Greg standing next to a wall, a small smile on his face as he walked towards Draco and extended his hand.
Draco eyed it and grabbed it firmly, then trapped him in a hug.
“Welcome back,” Greg said sheepishly.
“Welcome back yourself,” Draco replied.
And then he saw her.
Hermione was just metres away, smiling at him, her eyes glinting under the light that flooded the Great Hall.
All he could do was gape at her because he had lost control over his limbs, and his brain and any kind of autonomy over his body disappeared. He was rooted on the spot, transfixed by the vision that was her.
Draco had been fantasizing about this moment for the last year, and now he couldn’t fucking move.
“Bloody hell,” was all his mind repeated.
She was suddenly more beautiful than he remembered her. She looked older, but not really, probably more mature—
“More experienced,” the voice inside whispered, and that broke his trance.
Well, that and the fact that she was standing right in front of him, the same way she had after his trial.
“Hello, Malfoy,” she said and placed a kiss on his cheek, close enough to grace the corner of his mouth.
His heart skipped a beat. He was going to fucking faint without even uttering a word, and that could simply not happen.
A million thoughts ran through his head. All the versions of this encounter he had dreamed of were always too wild to seem real, and he had never accounted for this one—for the look on her face that let him know she, too, had been eager to see him after all that time.
Every coherent thought he had abandoned him; he forgot how to act and how to command his brain to move his body. He wanted to put his arms around her, but he feared that if he reacted to her, to her body close to his, he wouldn’t be able to stop.
The Great Hall was packed, and he wondered if Hermione cared about others seeing them together. Did she care for his touch? Did she want him to hug her? To kiss her? Would she prefer that they just shake hands?
He was so confused and overwhelmed. It was an overload for the senses, and all of it was caused by the fact that she was finally there.
“Granger,” was all he managed to say, and he smiled.
She bit her lip, and he wondered if she was nervous. His smile grew wider until it reached his eyes. He was causing that. He was doing that to her.
A pretty flush covered her cheeks, and Draco felt that if she kept looking at him like that, there was a chance he would sully his pants.
He needed to get his fucking act together.
“Are you ready for the NEWTs?” he managed to ask.
“I am. What about you?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
She smiled at him and looked away, and Draco panicked for a second. He wanted her warm brown eyes on him, to get her attention, to cup her face between his hands and—
“Are you staying at the castle?” Hermione asked, her head tilted, eyes back on him.
“No, I’m Flooing back to the manor once the day is done, and I’ll return tomorrow.”
“Good,” she said, averting her eyes.
His lips parted, but no sound came.
Her eyelashes fluttered. “It’s good you won’t be here to distract me.”
The smile that formed on his lips had a life of its own, and he wouldn’t have reined it in even if he could.
“Of course, we can’t afford any distractions.”
“None.”
Draco finally understood. “When you said ‘see you after the NEWTs—”
“I meant it, once the tests are over. No distractions; we’ve worked too hard on this.”
“Right, you are right, of course.” And he thought she really was.
There was too much on the line for both of them. Too many things depended on the results of his tests. He could taste freedom now, but he would not be able to savour it until he completed this last task.
“But that will make the reward even better,” Hermione said, giving him a smile that was 20% sweet and 80% sly.
Draco knew he was completely, absolutely, utterly fucked. Whatever he had been fantasizing about for the last twelve months was nothing compared to the real thing. And there was a very evident possibility that Granger had been daydreaming just as much, which made him feel cold. That meant she may have expectations, and Draco had certain…limitations. Things he had never learned, that he hadn’t--
“You are going to Nott’s party at the end of the week, right?” she asked, stopping the reeling his mind had already started.
“Are you?” He asked, managing to sound more confident than he felt.
“Yes.”
“Then I am, too,” he replied.
She didn’t need to know that Theo had mentioned the party at least 400 times in the letters his friends sent him or that Pansy had made him promise that he would not miss it.
Hermione bit her lip again. “Perfect. I can’t wait to see you there.”
Draco smiled because he had no bloody idea what she meant by it.
“Good luck on your tests, Malfoy.”
“Same to you,” he said.
As he watched her walk away, Draco thought that would probably be one of the longest weeks of his life, and that was taking into account that he had just finished his house arrest.
***
“You’re early,” Theo said, squinting at him.
“So?” Draco sneered back.
“So, are you here to help?” he asked as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
“I am not. I’m a guest, and I’ll be in your room until it’s time to come down,” he replied, going up the stairs.
“Pompous arsehole,” Theo said to his back.
“Right back at you,” he said without looking back.
For the next two hours, prior to the party he was there to attend, Draco planned to clear his mind and not think about the fact that the night was about to begin. It was, after all, his first night as a true free man.
The first night of the rest of his life.
If the odds that had seemed to be against him since the moment he was branded were finally in his favour, Hermione Granger would play a part in this new version of his life and newfound freedom.
***
The following succession of events happened so fast and were so bizarre that later, Draco would have trouble remembering the proper order or what exactly took place. Or why he felt Disillusioning himself while magically digging a hole in the earth while dirt just piled on top of him until he suffocated would be somehow less painful.
And much less humiliating.
A glass of firewhiskey was thrust into his hand at the same time he was dragged out of Theo’s bedroom. His eyes were just beginning to open when he understood that all the relaxation he planned to do had resulted in a nap he did not intend to take. His brain had not completely caught up to the present time when someone’s hand pushed the alcohol against his lips, and he drank it out of instinct.
“What the fuck is happening?” He yelled inwardly as the firewhiskey traveled down his throat, burning every attempt at coherency it found in its way.
Draco coughed, and someone’s arm pushed him forward. His fringe was over his eyes, and he swept it to the side with a hand before the world came to a halt.
Hermione was standing in front of him. All sound became muffled, and everyone around ceased to exist.
Even under the dim light of the sconces that surrounded the room they were in, she looked like summer. Her hair was wild, her skin tanned and peppered with freckles. Her shoulders were bare, and her cheeks flushed, all kissed by the sun as if she were the sun itself—radiant and warm and all-consuming.
There was only the two of them and the pull he felt toward her. A force he could not explain, gravity at its finest pulling him into her orbit and he was powerless, unable to resist it.
A vision in dark and light—enough to make Draco’s lungs forget their primary function, and he had to will the air back into them.
“Hey.”
Her voice brought the world back, and with it, the sounds and faces around them.
“Hey,” he replied, eloquence be damned.
It was hard to determine what was being said, but Hermione was smiling at him, so he had to smile back.
Words came out in snippets—“game,”—“seven,”—“volunteered,” and it made absolutely no sense, but the people around them cheered, and Hermione’s smile grew wider, so his did, too.
Then she moved away from him and went through a door—the former house-elf pantry if his memory did not fail him, but he was not sure about anything anymore.
“Wait,” he said and tried to follow, but Theo’s hand pulled him back.
“Mate, make the best of it. It’s been rather obvious that she’s been waiting all year to see you. I have a feeling she can’t wait to get in your pants—
“What?” Draco interrupted, his face contorting in sheer confusion.
“Or for you to get in her pants.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? What does that bloody mean?”
“Buddy, you’ll figure it out. I believe in you,” Theo said, clapping him in the back as he pushed him toward the door Hermione had gone through.
In one swift move, Theo opened the door and shoved him there.
“Colloportus,” the git cast from the outside.
His eyes fell on her, and he took in the details of the enclosed space. A magical hourglass hovered above them, and next to it, a Bluebell flame shone from above, bathing everything in a periwinkle light, including her.
“We have seven minutes. That is if you’d like,” she said and proceeded to bite her bottom lip again as she moved closer to him—awfully close, dangerously close. The space between them was so meagre that the warmth of Hermione’s breath felt scalding.
The tips of her fingers brushed his abdomen as she tugged at the hem of his shirt, and it wouldn’t have surprised him if she set his skin ablaze.
His mind was at war with everything happening; confusion and fear were creeping up on him. He didn't know if he wanted to recoil from the heat of her touch or push into it and be scorched once and for all.
Alarms blared in Draco’s mind.
“Seven minutes,” he thought. “For what?”
“I have a feeling she can’t wait to get in your pants…or for you to get in her pants,” Theo’s voice mocked from inside his skull.
No, it was certainly not that, was it? It couldn’t be because he had never been inside anyone’s pants, and he had no idea what the bloody fuck he was supposed to do.
His breathing became more laboured, and he began to feel the beads of sweat covering his forehead. His head felt light as if his brain had been liquefied and turned into gilly water.
He swallowed with difficulty.
Get in her pants?
No, it was not that. There was no way it could be because he had been waiting a year to see her, and for fucking Salazar, he was not embarrassing himself.
“Draco?”
“Fuck,” he tried to say but wasn’t sure if he had said the words aloud. He tried to smile, too, but could not tell if he had just grimaced.
It was the first time he had heard his name coming from her lips. Granger—Hermione had called him by his name. It sounded glorious until there was no sound at all; his eyes felt shrouded by something.
Seven minutes to—
Draco tried to look at the hourglass floating above them, but he couldn’t see, and he had no idea if Granger was saying something.
Was it him, or had the temperature risen inside that bloody pantry? He meant to ask her this but couldn’t form the words.
Was he shivering now, too?
“No, no. Everything’s fine. We’re fine,” he thought.
And then the world turned black.