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“One-two-three, one-two-three. It’s not hard. Do keep up.”
I huff in annoyance and pray my palms aren’t sweaty. Every time I think I’m getting it, moving to the rhythm, Malfoy changes direction, and I feel as though I have four feet.
“Ouch! How can you possibly have stepped on my foot when they’re fused together?”
“Err,” I reply.
“You are a terrible dancer.”
* * *
The day starts out just like any other day. Kreacher begrudgingly makes my breakfast—the eggs are cold and the toast hard, but I scarf it down with a smile. One day I’ll wear him down. Kill him with kindness, that’s Hermione’s advice. I comply because either way, I win. Either he’ll be nicer to me, or I’ll finally be rid of him.
I stop for coffee on my way downtown—Kreacher’s coffee is too watery, but I’ll be damned if I admit it to his face—and make it to my desk just as the cuckoo-clock chirps. Robards briefs us on the day’s assignment and pairs me with Malfoy. Again. I think he does it on purpose. He’s either got a sick sense of humour, or he enjoys the drama.
Malfoy has filled out since the war. He’s tall, buff, and gorgeous, but still an arrogant git. You’d think surviving a dark wizard would have given us something in common, or at least incentive to let bygones be bygones. But no, Malfoy’s as prickly as ever, and he never misses an opportunity to trade barbs or point out any of my shortcomings. Hermione calls them quirks (that’s why I love her).
We stand outside The Malignant Carrot (seriously, who names these places?), a shady apothecary at the far end of Knockturn Alley known for its unsavoury clientele. Malfoy enters the store first, carefully silencing the doorbell before it can make a sound, and I follow closely behind. (We’d fought about that, too. About which one of us should take the lead. Malfoy won the game of wizards, goblins, and trolls—the wizarding equivalent of rock, paper, scissors. His haughty sneer made my blood boil.)
The store is empty. Not a customer or employee in sight, which is strange for a Friday afternoon. Malfoy, the gorgeous bastard, holds his finger to his lips, and I roll my eyes. I can be quiet and careful. We both make our way forward in silence. I’m so focused on each footfall, ensuring a stealthy approach, that I don’t notice when Malfoy suddenly stops. I bump into him full force, and we lose our balance. There’s a display case to our right, stacked to the ceiling with corked bottles and glittering phials, and we stumble right into it. The entire thing comes crashing down—shelves buckle, stoppers fly loose, and glass shatters. We’re both drenched in a variety of unknown substances.
All I can think about is the mission. Months of hard work, research, and intelligence are about to be rendered useless. I have to get us out of here before we’re seen. I grab Malfoy’s wrist, and before he can protest I Apparate us directly to Robard’s office. We land with a jolt and my skin stings, but I can’t tell if it’s from the potions or from punching through the multitude of Ministry wards.
“Potter, you idiot,” Malfoy snarls.
“I just saved our arses,” I huff. I’m sticky, wet, and not in the mood for any of his shit today. “You can thank me later.”
He looks at me, his stormy grey eyes boring a hole into mine. “Did you not pay attention during potions class, you numpty?”
Of course not. How could I? What with Snape breathing down my neck for six years, and then Slughorn practically licking my boots every time I breathed.
He sighs. “You shouldn’t Apparate while exposed to unknown potions, especially when you don’t know how the properties will react to magical travel.”
My cheeks burn. Why does Malfoy always have to be so pompous and difficult? I need some air. I try to step back, only to find out I can’t. I’m unable to move at all. My hand remains attached to Malfoy’s wrist, as though held in place by a Sticking Charm (or industrial-strength Muggle glue), and the inside of my left foot is stuck to the outside of Malfoy’s right foot. It’s not just our shoes—somehow our feet are fused together through the rubber and leather. Bollocks. Malfoy has that look about him, the one where he’s infuriatingly smug because he knows I’ve cocked things up again.
Of course, Robards chooses that moment to come back to his office. He takes one look at us, rolls his eyes, and sends us straight to the Third Floor of St Mungo’s: Potions and Plant Damage.
The trip is pointless. Healer Granger (I have to call her that when she’s on duty) looks overly amused. I suspect she’s enjoying our situation a little too much. She assures us the effects will wear off in 24-48 hours and sends us on our way. We argue over whose place to go to, and eventually end up at Grimmauld Place. Kreature is beside himself with glee, offering his services to Malfoy. The git seems to enjoy it, too.
* * *
“Let’s try this again, shall we? One-two-three, one-two-three.”
We awkwardly make our way around the room with Kreature playing a waltz on the violin (I never knew he could play), and I attempt some semblance of rhythm. But it’s hard, because Malfoy is so close, and he smells of citrus and broom polish.
He brings his hand, the one not fused to mine, down to the small of my back, and he leans in closer. His day-old stubble rubs against my cheek and involuntarily I tremble. He pulls back and looks at me—really looks at me—and the bastard’s lip curls into a smirk.
“You like this, don’t you?”
“No,” I say, a little too quickly. He knows. A knot forms in my stomach. I’ve never been a good liar; Ron always cleans me out at poker.
We continue to dance. Malfoy’s arms are strong, and his hair is silky-smooth as it brushes against my skin. His lips move against my ear. “You do, I can tell.” With a quick movement disguised as a dance step, he pulls me against him, aligning our hips. I’m hard, and now he knows it. But, to my surprise, Malfoy’s equally aroused. Without a moment’s hesitation, he kisses me firmly on the mouth—he tastes of whisky and cigarettes—and I sigh softly. He nips at my lower lip as he pulls back, and there’s a wicked gleam in his eye. I shudder. I can’t help myself. His lips are shiny and he’s gorgeous.
He grins, smug and overly pleased with himself, but it doesn’t fill me with rage. The only thing I feel is burning desire.
“Why don’t we go upstairs,” he purrs, “and see if we can make the most of our… predicament?”
For the second time that day, I grab Malfoy’s wrist and Apparate us away.