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“Pansy, you can’t just leave your door unlocked.” Draco closed the hotel room door shut behind him, flipping the flimsy lock with a frown.
“I can. I do,” her voice floated back across the vaulted ceiling toward him.
He rolled his eyes, “Anyone could come in here. What if—”
“Relax.” She popped her sleek black bob out around the frame of her bathroom door, peeking at him. “I knew it was you. Besides, it isn’t like I can’t take care of myself.” She disappeared back into the bathroom without another word.
Draco released a long-suffering sigh, and set to walk further into her room, but slammed straight into an invisible barrier. He hadn’t so much as caught an inkling of the ward she’d apparently set to protect herself, prior to his arrival. He stumbled backwards as the unknown jinx brought tears to his eyes, completely mussing the front of his formal attire.
“Park, you bloody bint! Are you out of your mind?” His words came out muffled as he cradled his face in his hands.
“Told you I could take care of myself,” she sing-songed.
“You’re a—” he trailed off as Pansy’s head appeared again, snapping her fingers to release the ward.
“What was that you were saying?” she hissed, her hand held aloft in the air as if considering her next hand movement.
A menace. A lunatic. An absolute nutter. And obviously, completely able to care for yourself.
He evaded her question, posing one of his own instead, “Why in Salazar’s sack are we going to this party again? We don’t even like most of these people?”
With a steady stream of inarticulate grumbles, he pushed past her into the bathroom to blink at his reflection in the mirror. He ran his fingers beneath his eyes, wiping away the water that spiked his lashes, inspecting the rest of his face for any bruising or blood.
“You don’t like most of these people. I have no problem with people. I love people,” Pansy enthused, waggling her brows as she hiked the bustline of her festive green and silver sequined dress up a little higher, then sent a flutter of her fingers to cast a Sticking Charm to make sure it stayed precisely where she wanted it to.
“Let’s call a squib, a squib here, Pans; you don’t love people—you love men.” Draco peeled his upper lip back, making sure there was no blood on his teeth as his mouth had taken the brunt of her magical protective detail.
“Oh, Draco,” Pansy cooed, “you poor, sexually repressed little poppet.” She grabbed his shoulder, turned him toward her, and tweaked his nose.
“Well, I’m not wrong.” He winced and started to pull back as she booped him on the nose again. “Cut it out!”
“You’re not wrong,” she said, her laughter filling the space around them. “I do love men.”
“You vindictive little—” he wheezed when she tightened her grip on both ends of the tie, cutting off his air supply.
“Enough with the name calling.” Her dark eyes flashed, waiting for him to acknowledge her demand. At his reluctant nod, she relaxed her hold on the tie and reached up to adjust his collar. “Besides, it’s your mother hosting the annual children’s fundraiser for the Ministry, where else would we be? Stellar idea she had, by the way, combining it with a Yule party.”
“Still not a good enough reason to go.” He jerked his head back slightly, coughing air back into his lungs.
“Oh, for Salazar’s sake, you gigantic baby. It’s going to be fine.” She yanked at the ends of fabric, looping them around each other, re-forming a perfect bow in seconds without the use of magic.
“It’s not going to be fine, Pansy. I can’t believe she’s making us do this.”
“Making? Draco, good grief, I haven’t seen you throw a strop like this since you were thirteen and Theo stole your hair gel.”
“A strop,” he repeated in a huff. He rolled his eyes, feigning irritation as he pulled away from her to tug on the ends of the bow, reassuring himself that his image was once more impeccable and pristine.
“Come now, it’s the least we could do. Without your mother leading the charge, purebloods would still be ostracized and eating alone every Yule.”
“Hmph,” Draco vocalized, checking his face for the fifth time in as many minutes. “Is that such a bad thing? Instead, we’re rubbing elbows with—”
“With?” Pansy gave a smug smile as she stepped into silver heels. She grabbed a sparkling handbag and gave the contents a quick once-over.
“Got everything you need?” Draco asked, tongue in cheek, again ignoring her question.
“Yes, Dad.” Sarcasm dripped from her tone as she held out her purse toward him. “Would you like to look?”
“No, thank you.” Draco averted his eye, holding his hand out stiffly in front of him. “There are some things that I have zero desire to know.”
“What, you don’t want to hear about my penchant for Muggle sex toys?” Pansy teased, playing with the open purse in front of him.
“Ugh. Enough, Pansy! Let’s just get this over with.”
“Well, I can see someone is striving to play the part of the Grinch,” she pouted, watching as Draco took long strides back across her room toward the door. “I hope your heart grows three sizes today. Why are you so uptight?” She snapped the purse closed, considering him with a thoughtful expression. “Who are you so worried about seeing tonight?”
“A lot of people who hate us.”
“You exaggerate.”
“You’re the one talking about hearts growing three sizes, Pans.” With a patented lift of his eyebrow in true sardonic fashion, he waited for her reply, gesturing toward the open door. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. If my heart grew three sizes, I’d be dead. Is that what you want? Me to die at this party? Well, that would be splendid—”
“Well, it’d give Rita something to write about, wouldn’t it? Merlin’s tits, you’re dramatic today,” Pansy interrupted as she spun back, her heels clicking against the bathroom tile to pluck her wand from the counter. “Maybe you’ll get lucky and your cock will grow three sizes instead.”
Draco scoffed as he pivoted, his eyebrows disappearing into his hairline. “You’re being awfully cheeky. Can we please just get on with it? I don’t much care for this Muggle get-up,” he declared, deciding to try and one-up her. “These trousers are too tight and if my cock is going to grow three sizes, I’m going to make quite the spectacle at Mother’s little soirée.”
“Oh, look who’s being cheeky now?” She covered her mouth, faking a scandalized gasp. However, the glint that flashed in her dark eyes as she tilted her head to the side, scanning the length of his body, should have warned Draco that the next words out of her mouth would hurt. She pinched her thumb and index finger together and then separated them just an inch. “Besides, you have nothing to worry about.”
“Ouch.” He clutched at his chest. “That was a low blow.”
“Well, from the way you’re acting, it’s obvious you haven’t had a blow in quite a while. You should work on rectifying that tonight.”
Draco shook his head, ignoring her obvious attempt to rile him further, gesturing aggressively to the hallway.
“Got them?” Pansy asked, appraising him from over her shoulder as she stepped over the threshold.
“Got what?” He grit out, a muscle in his jaw twitching when she paused. But he held his hands out, turning to solicitously scan the room behind him.
“The presents for the Secret Santa gift exchange, naturally. Draco, do you not read anything I send you?”
“Secret Santa? What—” Draco spluttered. “Presents? We’re supposed to have bought presents for each other?”
“Don’t worry, I’ve got you covered.” Pansy hurried back into the room, and he rapped the back of his head against the door, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. When she returned, she handed him a shiny, vibrantly blue wrapped gift, carrying another small intricately covered silver and red striped present under her arm.
Arriving within moments of each other, Draco had just stepped inside the ballroom and picked up a glass of water at the bar when the Floo roared to life again and she stepped through with a flurry of snowflakes, instead of green Floo smoke. His heart slammed up into his throat and his mouth went slack, completely drying out.
Hermione Granger stood silhouetted by the white snowflakes that his blasted mother’s magical embellishments had seemed to design just for maximum impact on his libido. She was an absolute vision in her scarlet wraparound gown. It hugged her plentiful curves, dipped between her ample breasts, skimmed over her rounded hips, and wound tight around her thighs, ending just below her knees. His fingers clenched the glass like he wanted to grip hold of her. Leave it to the Brightest Witch of the Age to shine like a bloody beacon. She gave a small toss of her shoulders, like she’d caught a chill from the fake snow, and her hair—that beautiful mane that she’d artfully pinned up in a mass of curls on the crown of her head—spilled a couple of chestnut tendrils to tease her shoulders. She reached up to adjust one rogue curl, and Draco exhaled hard. Literally. He was hard—everywhere.
He slugged back the glass of water, whirling with another tight breath, his heart pounding a frantic, erratic beat beneath his ribs. He motioned to the bartender for something stronger, inclining his eyebrows and tapping his glass on the bar’s shiny surface.
A lilting laugh tickled his ear and ran shivers down his spine as he lifted his gaze to the mirror above the bar and caught her reflection. His attention—unerringly—found itself magnetized by the sexy woman in red.
She just had to wear red. She looks like a flame in red. And like a moth to the flame, I’m always burned by the blasted fire.
“Well, well, well,” Pansy whispered into his ear. “Lookie who’s here.”
“Who?” He dropped his chin, considering the ice cubes in his otherwise empty glass.
“Don’t play daft, Draco, it doesn’t suit you.” She faced the ballroom, resting her back and elbows against the bar.
“What are you doing? Stop staring!”
Pansy smirked at him, “What’s the problem? I thought you didn’t know who had just arrived.” She pretended to scan the room, but kept Hermione in her sights. “Hermione Granger…”
“Of course she’s here. She’s a Ministry employee. Did you really think she wouldn’t come to a children’s charity fundraiser? Merlin, that’s practically like—I don’t know—walking down the street and not seeing a Weasley,” Draco grumbled, irked at how quickly his brain had made the jump between Granger and the Weasel in his thoughts.
“She looks beautiful,” Pansy prodded.
“That dress is—”
“Fucking hot. I’d do her.” Pansy winked at him.
“Salazar, you’re—”
“Oh, stuff it. I’m one hundred percent right. She looks amazing. Why do her tits look so much better than mine?” Pansy dropped a quick glance down at her own breasts, then across the crowd, darting her eyes back to where Draco still stared at Hermione in the mirror’s reflection. She smothered a grin, choosing her next words carefully, “She always has had this way of—”
“She looks...sinful,” Draco conceded, his breath catching in his throat as he continued to drink her in, nodding to the bartender when he deposited a new highball glass in front of him.
Pansy laughed loudly, catching Hermione’s attention. The brunette immediately changed her course, crossing the room toward them.
“If you think she looks sinful in that, you should see what you bought her for the Secret Santa gift exchange,” Pansy whispered in Draco’s ear before stepping out from beside him to greet Hermione with outstretched arms.
“What I bought? Pansy, what in Merlin’s name are you talking about?” Draco hissed, attempting to grab her arm.
“Pansy. Happy Christmas, you look stunning,” Hermione’s compliment was genuine, but her tone turned decidedly frosty as her eyes met Draco’s over Pansy’s shoulder. “Malfoy.”
“Hermione, you look sin...sensational.” Pansy teased, rocking Hermione back and forth in a hug, dancing in a circle. She spun the other witch out, tossing a wicked look at Draco over her deliberate stutter.
Draco rolled his eyes and dipped his chin. “Granger.”
“I know I raised you better than that,” Narcissa Malfoy arrived at his side, a classic beauty in a floor-length gown of ice blue. A paragon of propriety, she still believed in appearances and his apparent slight of Hermione would not be tolerated.
“Hello, Mother,” he said, pressing his lips to her cool cheek. “You have outdone yourself this evening. Everything looks—”
“Draco Lucius Malfoy, you had better—” she quietly seethed into his cheek.
“Relax.” He pulled away from his mother, practically swallowing his tongue and forcing himself to focus on a curl that dangled over Hermione’s left ear. “Granger, I see you still favor Gryffindor red.” He exhaled hard when his mother’s elbow connected sharply with his ribs. “It suits you.”
Hermione’s eyes heated as they flickered between Draco and his mother. “Mm,” she murmured. “Thank you.” She extended her hand toward him, daring him to refuse her.
He barely held her fingers between his own, and didn’t make eye contact when he leaned in, ghosting his lips over the back of her hand. However, Pansy, set as she was on his abject humiliation, squeezed around behind him, with the apparent intent of greeting Narcissa and hip-checked him into Hermione.
“Oh, this is ridiculous. Happy Christmas, Malfoy,” Hermione said, giving him an awkward hug as he stumbled into her.
Draco brushed his cheek against hers, “You look beautiful.” He stiffened, the words seeming to have been unintentional, and he attempted to cover by continuing on, “I mean, for a red dress and all.”
“I mean, you can’t be too anti-red.” Hermione smirked up at him, trying desperately not to let him see how much a simple hug had affected her. He took a half step backwards, blinking at her quizzically and her hand slid from his shoulder onto his chest, before she brought both hands up to straighten his bow tie. “Nice tie.”
“What?” Draco tipped his chin at her giggle.
“The red, it’s nice. It suits you,” Hermione mocked, and dropped her hands. A small growl echoed in his throat as their eyes connected and held.
“Look at you two, color coordinating and everything,” Pansy trilled.
“You kiddies have fun. I have good tidings to share.” Narcissa hooked her elbow with Pansy’s and the pair sauntered off, leaving Draco and Hermione alone, staring at each other.
The air between them was positively electric.
Tapping the edge of her champagne flute, Narcissa took to the podium. “May I have your attention, please? If you could all please take a chair around the stage here, we’ll start passing out the presents.”
Gradually the din in the room quieted. Luna, dressed as a snazzy elf, and Ron, decked out as a very grumpy looking Santa joined Narcissa on a slightly elevated dais.
Selectively grouped together, all the biggies of Wizarding Society were represented: elected Ministry officials, members of the Wizengamot, members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, Hogwarts Professors, and all the heroes of the War. Draco scanned the multitude of attendees, shifting along the shadowed edges of the ballroom; but in truth, he was stalking her.
Hermione perused the groups, questioning where she was supposed to sit, despite her membership in several of the organizations. The evening’s encounters having left her out of sorts, and a frown unconsciously marred her features as she sat at a solitary corner table.
“Granger.” Draco dropped down beside her. “I didn’t expect you, of all people, to be alone tonight.”
“Draco, Hermione. What are you doing way back here all by yourselves? Oh, look, how lovely, it’s the Magical Merry Mistletoe.” Luna smiled. “Quick, you’d better kiss before it draws everyone else’s attention to it—and you.”
“What?” Hermione’s head turned fast, and her hand came out as she tracked Luna—who, only moments before—had been with Narcissa up on the dais, but now stood beside them. Then she tipped her chin up, noticing the floating sprig of mistletoe hovering above Draco’s head.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Draco gritted out between clenched teeth. He looked up and then around, catching a glimpse of Pansy deep in conversation with his mother.
“It’s only going to get bigger and attract more attention if you don’t,” Luna chirped.
“That's what she said,” Hermione murmured.
“Let’s just get this over with,” Draco said, rising to his feet, gently grasping Hermione’s arm and bringing her around toward him.
“Surely, you can’t be serious?”
“Do you think I want to snog you?” he asked, although that is exactly what he wanted to do. His belly tightened with arousal at his obvious lie and evasion.
“Your tie does match her dress exactly, Draco. And there are far fewer Nargles over both of your heads tonight. Naturally, that could be due to the fact that neither of you have taken your eyes off the other since Hermione arrived—” Luna smiled serenely as the pair gaped first at her and then at each other.
“I can’t just snog you.” Hermione’s neck pinkened as blood rushed to her skin, her blush working its way north.
“All right, I guess I could do it.” Luna lifted one shoulder and moved to step in-between the pair.
“No, wait!” Hermione held her hand up, unwilling to let Luna claim a kiss from Draco Malfoy.
At that precise moment, her sixth sense clueing in, the dulcet tone of Pansy crowed out over the low din of conversation, “Look at that, Draco and Hermione have got themselves a Magical Merry Mistletoe, how cute! That’s a thousand Galleons, if they don’t hurry up and snog!”
With the public announcement of a Mistletoe sighting, the rules were absolute. In pureblood fundraising circles, if it hovered over someone’s head, the person they were closest to had to kiss them, or Gringotts’ Goblins were entitled to a predetermined amount of the Galleons raised. Otherwise, they donated the same portion themselves to the charity of choice. Goblins, being highly intelligent, often tried to rig the Mistletoe to hover over wizards or witches who would never partake in such dalliances.
“I’ll take that bet. Hermione’s not one to back down from anything!” The unmistakable voice of Seamus Finnigan catcalled back.
As their friends began to argue over whether or not they were going to snog, a ten second countdown began.
“If you don’t kiss in the next ten seconds, a thousand Galleons from the coffers donated to the children tonight will be taken and given to the Goblins at Gringotts,” Luna reiterated, not knowing if Hermione was fully aware of the rules of the pureblood Mistletoe tradition.
“What? Absolutely not!” Hermione shouted. Her hands flew out, grabbing for Draco’s shoulders, and she slammed her mouth to his.
From the moment their lips met, the magically charmed mistletoe began to play “Jingle Bells”, and the crowd began to clap and cheer, all eyes on them.
Draco’s world stopped spinning for the briefest of moments; the actualization of his deepest desire coming to fruition shocking him motionless. Then, as his short-circuited brain rapidly caught back up with executive functioning, the heightened awareness in hyper-speed, his arms banded around her, and he dipped her theatrically low. His lips parted and his tongue came out to trace the seam of hers; coaxing, begging, needing her response.
A raucous and almost jubilant set of whoops and whistles resounded around them as she responded. Her fingers clung and clutched at his shoulders before winding up around the back of his neck, her mouth opening on a breathy moan. It was less a kiss, and more of an explosion; the world around them dissolving as they met and combusted.
As the refrain of “Jingle Bells” rang out, the Mistletoe above them erupted in a dazzling shower of fireworks, sizzling over the pair of them, the sparks breaking on the bare skin of Hermione’s arms. She pulled away when the pain jerked her back into awareness.
“Well, that got rid of all the Nargles,” Luna sighed dreamily. “I’ll still kiss you, if you want me to, Draco. But I think you’re okay now. Here are your gifts.” She flicked her hand, floating a pair of gifts from the front table where Narcissa stood watching the pair.
Hermione accepted her gift, her cheeks flaming as she thanked Luna and sat back down in her chair, hoping that people would stop staring at them.
Pansy sashayed her way across the ballroom, pulling up a chair. “So, that was hot.” She sandwiched Hermione between her and Draco, reaching up and tugging him down by the wrist. “Sit down, you’re embarrassing the woman.”
“Stop that.” Draco yanked his arm away, but dropped back down into the chair on Hermione’s other side.
“Ooh, I just love presents,” Pansy giggled, rubbing her hands together as a gaudily wrapped gift was deposited on her lap. She gave a pointed look down at the package on Hermione’s lap, waggling her eyebrows. “Don’t you, Draco?”
His brows pulled together before he realized that one of the gifts she had brought was sitting on Hermione’s lap, and it didn’t take a genius to realize that Pansy was meddling. He was going to throttle her.
“Uh, Granger…you don’t have to…”
Her large brown eyes blinked at him and his words stuttered out. Their kiss still sat at the forefront of both of their minds, turning them mute. The box, beautifully wrapped in the shiny blue, almost metallic-esque paper sat in her lap, like an unopened bomb, her name written in a delicate script.
Draco’s plainly wrapped present was next in line, and so it went until everyone in the room had received one.
Narcissa stood expectantly up on the podium, waiting until everyone had their respective gift. “When I count down, everyone will open their gifts at once.” Pausing briefly, she continued, “In three, two, one.”
The ripping of paper preceded laughter and shocked inhalations. Pansy opened her gift, a small smile crossing her lips as she found a silk bathrobe and a certificate to an exclusive spa for a massage. “Well, someone certainly has good taste,” she murmured, looking around the room to see if she could pinpoint the gifter.
Hermione and Draco opened their gifts together. Hermione gasped out loud and covered her gift with both hands as her jaw dropped. Pansy cackled knowingly next to her, “What’d you get, Granger?”
“Something highly inappropriate,” Hermione babbled, her face almost as red as her gown.
“Come on, let me see!” Pansy grabbed the box from her hands with lightning-fast reflexes. Whistling loudly, Pansy pulled out a Slytherin-green leather, satin, and lace teddy, holding it in front of Hermione’s body with a squeal. Hermione flushed hotter as she yanked it free of Pansy’s hands, stuffing it under her thigh as she tried to keep the commotion to a minimum, aware of all the attention they were still garnering.
“A naughty nightie, thigh-high boots. Wow, these are really nice, what size are they?” she joked, pulling out a boot and looking at the size marked on the bottom of it. “A whip, handcuffs, and a blindfold even? Wow, Granger, someone obviously thinks...” Pansy whistled again.
“Pansy, shhh! My boss is here!” Hermione pleaded, grabbing for the box back.
“Oh, fine...” Pansy acquiesced, handing her the box. “But wow, girl...someone’s got it bad for you.” She looked across Hermione deliberately, rolling her eyes as the other witch furiously tried to stuff the items back inside the gift box. “Draco. Draco, are you all right?”
When he didn’t answer, Hermione turned her head to look at him as well, and a knot formed in her belly that had nothing to do with the naughty present she’d just received. He sat stunned, holding a wooden box engraved with the Malfoy crest on the lid.
“What’s this now?” Pansy said curiously, twisting over Hermione in her haste to see what was in the box.
Draco snapped the lid shut and stood up. “I’ve got to get some air.”
“Malfoy, are you okay? You’re awfully pale.” Hermione reached for his arm. “Do you need...” her question trailed off as he left without answering, heading for the terrace.
“Go. Go. What’s wrong with you? Go find out what’s in that box!” Pansy urged, practically shoving Hermione out of her chair.
“Geez, Pansy, you’re worse than I am,” Hermione muttered, clutching her naughty gift box to her chest as she carefully made her way around people now milling about, oohing and aahing over each other’s gifts.
Finding Draco standing alone on the terrace, she hesitated before calling out to him. “Let me guess, cigars?” Hermione quipped from the doorway, the light spilled out from behind her onto the slate flooring, casting her in complete shadow. “It looked like a very nice cigar box.”
Draco turned to look at her, his heart pounding as he clutched the box to his chest.
“Malfoy?”
He didn’t move, didn’t speak, just stared at her with an inscrutable expression on his face and gave a tiny jerk of his chin.
“You’re this torn up over cigars?” Hermione propped one fist onto her hip, jutting her weight out to the side. “Don’t you think you’re overreacting a bit here? Just because someone got you cigars? Don’t tell me it offends your delicate sensibilities...I know loads of wizards who enjoy a good smoke every once in a while.”
He shook his head back and forth, wetting his lips, before stuttering out a barely audible, “N-not cigars.”
“Oh,” she breathed. “Well, the box looked like a good imitation of the Malfoy crest. It’d be a nice family heirloom.” She took another breath, noticing how Draco paled.
“You’re scaring me a little here. Are you okay? Do you want me to get Pansy? Or need me to find your mother?” She stepped out of the doorway, and her heels clicked loudly on the slate in the quiet stillness of the night air.
He shook his head back and forth, and held up his hand with the box in it.
Uncomfortable in the heavy silence, she immediately began speaking again, talking faster, “You could–I don’t know–you could, use it as a pen box or something, pass it down someday…”
“Family heirloom...” he repeated with a slow nod, looking down at a piece of parchment.
Hermione cocked her head and regarded him warily. “Was that in the box?”
A tremor ran through him as he nodded again. “I may as well tell you, seeing as how it affects you, too.”
Pansy stood behind the door, stealthily eavesdropping.
“Your Secret Santa gift exchange affects me? Was it some airborne toxin in the box that is going to make me itchy because I was sitting next to you?” Hermione joked, trying desperately to infuse some levity into their conversation.
“No, nothing as easy as all that.” Draco’s gaze remained locked on her, and he took a step in her direction, the parchment crumpling in his tight grip.
“Enough with the guessing games...what is that in your hand?” Hermione tapped her foot, a shiver dancing along her skin as he drew closer.
Draco stepped into her personal space and forced her to look up into his eyes. So many emotions flickered in his gaze that she trembled with the intensity of them.
“Caught under the Mistletoe again,” Pansy sang as she cleared the doorway, catching them standing beneath it. “You know what that means.”
Draco and Hermione both shot her a dark look, but Pansy shook her head. “Come on, you two, it’s Yule. Be good sports.” She gave them a devilish look, working her lower lip with her top teeth. “You know you want to. Besides, it’s for the children.”
Turning back to Hermione, Draco slid one hand behind her neck as the other with the paper in it lightly brushed against her hip, pulling her into him.
The moment their lips connected, Pansy ceased to exist. The cold temperature stopped mattering. It was just the two of them, their connection growing stronger as their mouths opened and their tongues tentatively touched and retreated. Draco groaned and pulled her more tightly against him as Hermione wound her arms around his neck, dropping her box on the ground as “Jingle Bells” chimed above them again.
“Well, that’s certainly a Merry Mistletoe kiss if I’ve ever seen one. You two enjoy now.” Pansy quietly crept away, missing Narcissa hiding behind a stone pillar.
The explosion of the Mistletoe ended their lusty thrall and they pulled away from one another after a drawn-out moment, both panting and painfully aroused. Hermione stared at his lips, and stumbled backwards, her hand hovering over her own mouth.
Draco rumbled deep in his chest, almost as if he could read her mind; but he, too, felt the need to put some space between them before they took things too far, right there on the terrace.
Clearing his throat, he tried to explain, “It seems...that there’s to be a Marriage Law enacted on the first of the New Year.” He swallowed over the lump in his throat and passed the paper to her, watching her eyes widen as she read it.
“You’ve got to be kidding me?” Hermione exclaimed, her pulse continuing to run wild, pumping buckets of adrenaline through her veins.
“According to that, it appears we may wind up married,” Draco said, taking another step toward her, hooking his finger under her chin and forcing her gaze upward into his. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking…” her words trailed off as her lips curled up at the corners, and she pulled his forehead down to hers. “We can worry about it tomorrow.”