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October
Hermione Granger would not consider herself a Quidditch fan. In fact, it would be one of the few things that she had less interest in than Divination (or what it really was: Lavender’s unnecessary quips about the lack of love she had seen in Hermione’s future). But when your best friends were both players and fanatics, she found herself following the sport more closely than she liked.
There was no denying, however, that Quidditch had brought her happiness that she wasn’t sure she’d have been able to grab otherwise.
It all started one very chilly October evening. Hermione had studied late into the night, preparing for her NEWTs a few more months in advance (read: several months, nine to be exact). Her timetable was impeccable, accounting for any discrepancies she could think of - especially considering all that she had on her plate: the Quidditch Trio (Harry, Ron, and Ginny) had been begging her for months to try and come to their matches for their final year, NEWTs, and Head Girl responsibilities, which included trying to control Head Boy Draco Malfoy, the bane of her existence. Nonetheless, she’d stayed awake for much longer than she should’ve, and now, she was running late for Charms.
The corridors were near-empty, the distant clack of her shoes echoing through stone halls that smelled of old parchment and morning dew. Cold air bit at her ankles where her socks slipped, and she tugged her cloak tighter as she darted up the last staircase, Charms textbook clutched like a shield.
Hermione frowned as she stepped into the Charms classroom, her eyes landing on the dark-haired boy taking up the seat next to her best friend, taking up her seat. While Nott looked relaxed, his eyes trained on Harry as he leaned back in his chair, Harry, on the other hand, had a stiff back and a flushed neck. It was no secret that Harry had a huge crush on the Slytherin. It was a topic that brought Ron and her immense pleasure during their talks in the common room. Harry had always insisted that it was one-sided and that there was no way, absolutely no way, that the Theodore Nott would see him as anything other than the Boy-Who-He-Lived-To-Annoy.
Holding back a groan of frustration, she scanned the room for the next available spot, scrunching her nose when she realized it was towards the back of the lesson and next to the one person she wanted to avoid.
Sure, she and Malfoy had gotten into a nice—dare she say, almost friendly rhythm—what with their constant commentary on the development of Harry Potter’s love life, but it didn’t help that she found herself incredibly distracted in his company. It was difficult enough already in trying to complete their Head duties, but she had to see him in lessons, on the field, in the Great Hall and her living quarters; though Hermione wasn’t entirely upset with Malfoy’s inability to wear a shirt when he was lounging.
She moved to the back of the room, brushing by Harry and Nott, the latter shooting a wink at her annoyed expression. Hermione set her book bag down onto the table with a soft thud, barely even glancing at her neighbour.
“Malfoy,” she greeted, taking a seat.
“Granger. My, my, aren’t you tardy today?”
Hermione signed inwardly, angling to face him. She felt her throat tighten as her eyes landed on his slightly loose tie. When he tied it this morning, walking into their common room to where she sat on the couch trying to re-read her Potions essay one more time before handing it in, she remembered feeling this inexplicable urge to yank it down, ideally pulling his face to hers. Hermione shook her head lightly in an attempt to brush the image out of her mind.
“Professor Flitwick isn’t even here yet. Besides, I still have a few minutes before the lesson starts.”
“Oh, but you’re later than usual. That means you’re slacking, and I beat you here.”
“This isn’t a competition,” she huffed, sneaking another glance at Harry’s back. “May I ask why you’re not sitting with your second-half?” She asked.
Malfoy’s grey eyes met hers. He slouched in his seat, twirling the quill in his fingers. “My second-half has somehow determined he’s going to woo your second-half.”
“Fat chance, my second-oh, for Merlin’s sake - Harry is going to realize he’s being wooed unless Nott decides to tell him.” Hermione paused. Was it worth sharing that Harry believed Nott was mocking him? Maybe, if it meant that something besides pining would come out of it. If she had to hear another drunk - she still didn’t know how they were smuggling FireWhiskey into the castle - rant about how Nott’s brown eyes were the perfect pool for Harry’s swim. “He thinks Nott’s only trying to annoy him.”
Malfoy’s lips pulled into a soft smile. “Yes, yes, Potter’s an idiot. I’ll be sure to pass that along.”
“Not an idiot,” she hissed, her eyes narrowing into a glare. “Just oblivious.” She looked at her best friend, his neck still bright red as he furiously scribbled down whatever was on the board (the date). Nott’s eyes were still trained on Harry’s form, and the smirk on his face was bigger than when she first walked into the lesson.
“Theo’s been trying to date Potter for weeks now. Even asked the bloke to teach him how to use a broomstick.” Malfoy grinned.
“Surely Nott understands that Harry is clearly going to take it as asking for flying lessons?”
“Granger, it was a euphemism.”
“I’m not an idiot, Malfoy. I understood that it was an euphemism, but if you already know he’s oblivious, then it’s quite evident that Nott needs to be a little more forthcoming about his intentions.”
“And if I asked?”
Hermione flushed, her eyes snapping to meet his grey ones. His eyes seemed darker now—was that the light? Or was he actually—no. No, she was not going to overthink a look. Except now she was overthinking it. Her throat felt tight ,and her gaze dropped to his pink lips, her own tongue slipping out to lick her bottom one.
This. This was the primary reason he was the bane of her existence. Not only did she have to share her living quarters with the bloke, but Hermione also had to deal with the entirety of his smug and attractive - bloody attractive - person.
Hermione Granger was, against her better judgment, somewhat attracted to Draco Malfoy. And there was no way that he reciprocated any of her feelings, that she was absolutely certain of.
“I think it's evident that Harry prefers chasers to seekers, wouldn't you say?”
Malloy let out a huff of a laugh. “If I asked you, Granger.”
“If you asked, then I would let you know that you’re the Slytherin seeker and that maybe Madame Hooch might be more inclined to help you with your advanced flying lessons.”
Malfoy smirked, running his hand through his hair. He opened his mouth to reply, eyes lingering on her lips a moment too long, but Professor Flitwick’s voice cut through the air, breaking the spell. Hermione turned towards the front, her heart beating out of her chest.
Was he flirting with her? She’d been hearing the same sort of remarks from Malfoy since the first week back at Hogwarts. Consistently, he’d catch her off-guard, smirking all the while she floundered trying not to blush herself red. No, it was probably a game.
“Granger,” Malfoy whispered, his knees knocking into hers as he tried to get her attention.
Hermione kept her eyes fixed on the parchment in front of her.
“Hey, Granger.”
“Shut up,” she mustered up the effort to keep her gaze on the board in front of her as Professor Flitwick wrote out the new charm they would learn, underlining for intonation.
Long, pale fingers grazed the side of her parchment, covering up the bottom corner, lingered there, just long enough for her to forget what she was writing. She could still feel the ghost of his touch even after he pulled away. Her throat felt tight. “Granger, I’d ask Hooch for flying lessons, but I’d ask you to hop on my broomstick.”
And for the rest of the lesson, Hermione sat stiff as a board, her heart beating in her chest like a bird in a cage. Her notes were in a disarray; words out of line, letters spaced out, and she’d barely even written down the history of the charm and only a single use. Nothing that could have been used for her NEWT preparation.
When she looked at it again later that night, angry and flipping through the Charms textbook in the library, she noticed a small broomstick in the corner of her page, animatedly buzzing around in a small circle.
It took every single bone in her body to stop herself from looking over at Malfoy the next day at breakfast. Ron droned on, and Hermione hoped that angling her body towards him and pretending to nod would hopefully trick her mind into not looking past the left of Harry’s head.
On the other hand, she could feel Malfoy’s eyes on her, the tingling in the side of her face getting warmer the longer he stared. Hermione swallowed the nervous lump in her throat and shifted the glass of pumpkin juice closer. Oh, how she wished it was Firewhiskey.
“-mione?” Hermione snapped her eyes up to meet Ginny’s inquisitive stare.
Hermione cleared her throat, “Sorry, I didn’t realize Ron finally shut up.”
Ginny grinned, ignoring the ‘Hey!’ from her brother, “Honestly, he still thinks the Cannons are going to win the season. I was simply asking how it feels to work with the ferret?”
“Working with him? How’s living with him, ‘Mione?” Harry interjected. Hermione grimaced at the sight of the bit of sauce on the side of his mouth.
She focused on wiping it away while she answered, pretending as if the tingling sensation hadn’t changed from warm to burning hot. “It’s perfectly fine. He’s just a mild annoyance, to be quite frank, and hasn’t done anything particularly obnoxious. Besides, I only see him in the evening or before breakfast.”
“What’s he like after he showers, Hermione?” Hermione choked, shifting her eyes to glare at Ginny, who in turn beamed with excitement.
“Ginny,” she spluttered, “that’s - I’m going to take the liberty to refrain from answering your question.” With the heat rising so quickly to her cheeks, Hermione was certain her neck and her cheeks were splotchy with colour. And with her dreaded luck, Malfoy definitely would be commenting on it back in their quarters.
A small part of her, however, hoped he would.
“Leave her alone, Ginny,” Ron frowned, biting off a corner of his toast. “Hermione isn’t interested in the ferret like that.”
Ginny raised her eyebrows in response, darting her eyes from Hermione’s face to her hands, which were tensely focusing on cutting her steak up. “You don’t have to be interested in someone to appreciate their beauty, Ronald. Isn’t that why you’re star-struck every time Parkinson walks by?”
Ron choked. Hermione met Harry’s eyes from across the table as he thumped Ron’s back to help him out and let out a laugh.
“There’s been a lot of interest in Slytherins this year, hasn’t there?” Ginny’s eyes twinkled.
Hermione let out a laugh, hoping that it sounded as normal as she could make it. Her interest in Malfoy, if prodded a little too deeply, would be mistaken as something it definitely was not: a crush. But it was all for nothing when Ginny’s eyes mostly rested on Harry’s blushing—and avoiding—face.
When they leave, as Hermione explained how to approach their newest Potions assignment, her eyes drifted over to the Slytherin table, catching the mischievous grey ones of the Head Boy. Unable to see anything past the lack of interest normally present, she lifted her eyes back towards Harry, almost missing the slight tilt up of his lips.
“As prefects, we’ll be in charge of organizing the Yule Ball, like every other year.”
In front of her, many of the younger prefects straightened up, having had their attention caught. Hermione tried not to smile at their overeager faces.
Her eyes tingled from the hot breath that grazed them. “Wait until they realize how much work prep and clean up is. Maybe they can do it all instead of us.” Hermione narrowed her eyes and swatted to the side of her, thwacking Malfoy in the stomach.
“Yes, yes. It’s all very exciting,” she continued. “As Heads, Malfoy and I will be supervising everything. Now, I’ve already created lists and identified the most compatible groups to handle specific tasks. If you all will just take these—” Hermione handed out little leaflets of parchment, “I think you’ll find them quite informative.”
“Can’t we work in our own groups?” One of the fifth years spoke up, Abernathy, she thought. “I’d think we’re most compatible with mates from our own house.”
Hermione smiled politely, “I think we must move beyond our established paradigms and focus on house unity. Professor McGonagall was quite excited about the perspective of working beyond our houses.”
“Hermione knows what she’s doing, alright? I’d listen to her,” Ron chimed in, throwing her a wink and the others a smile bright and disarming. Her heart warmed.
Abernathy scoffed, leaning back in the seat. “Fine.” But as she explained the preparation process further, she heard his harsh words mumbled under his breath. “Bossy swot.”
She had never been the kind of person to care what others thought of her. Hermione was competitive and loud—and bloody proud— of her knowledge and intellect. But this year was different; she wanted to be someone that people not only respected but also trusted. She knew that some of the professors found her unapproachable, and that appeared to translate to the students as well, and yet, she knew that she could do better. If Hermione wanted to become Minister one day, she’d have to make sure people liked her.
And so, Hermione tried to keep a straight face and keep going.
“What did you say?” Malfoy’s sharp words cut through. Hermione’s head snapped over to look at his. He was angry.
Abernathy replied in a bored sort of tone. “Nothing.”
“No, please, do share it with the rest of us.”
“Malfoy, leave it.”
“Hermione, stay out of it. Let him handle it,” Ron whispered, pulling at her arm gently to pull her closer ot him.
“I asked you a question. Answer me.”
“Really throwing your weight around here, aren’t you, Malfoy? What? Daddy didn’t teach you how to talk to others with respect?”
“Respect is earned, Abernathy. Granger earned it; she’s your Head Girl. You will treat her with respect, or I will personally bring it up to the Headmaster and make sure you face consequences.”
That shut Abernathy up, his hands fisting by his side, gripping onto the lined blue of his robes. “You can’t do that.”
“The students are supposed to trust you, follow you because you are supposed to lead them. Granger paid her dues—she’s already been a Prefect long enough, and if you’d been here then too, you would’ve known that Granger always makes these lists. Everyone—and I mean, everyone —appreciates them. Consider this your first and final warning.”
And as the rest of the Prefects filed out at the end, Abernathy pushed past, slamming the edges of his shoulders into Malfoy’s on purpose.
“You didn’t have to say that.”
“You shouldn’t let people walk all over you, Granger.”
“I was trying to maintain peace. And besides, I’m not some damsel in distress that you need to save, Malfoy.”
Malfoy stopped in front of her. Hermione searched his eyes for a bit, entranced in the pools of grey, and missed how he raised his hand to gently press the back of his fingers to her cheek. The air left her lungs in a soft gasp, “I wasn’t tr—Peace shouldn’t come at your expense.” He turned away swiftly, grabbing his bookbag and hoisting it on his shoulders.
She dove forward and grabbed his hand. “Thank you.”
“Anytime, Granger.” He winked, his voice still quiet from their overwhelmingly soft interaction.
“I’m considering pretending to be sick to land myself in the infirmary,” Ron slid into the seat next to her.
She pushed his bag aside from where it dug into her thigh and furrowed her brows. “Why?”
“Lavender keeps asking if I’d be willing to give us another shot. Reckons that some vague divination from Trelawney has to do with us.”
Hermione rolled her eyes, “I doubt that anything she says could even be true. Fat load of rubbish she spews.”
“I don’t care if it’s true or not. I have no intention of dating her again - she’s sweet but loud. Besides -” Ron’s eyes darted towards a blonde sitting at the Ravenclaw table, her treacle tart earrings brushing her cheeks as she looked down at a book, “I’ve got someone I think I fancy.”
“Well, if you do end up in Madam Pomfrey’s care, I doubt you’ll be able to play Quidditch against Ravenclaw this weekend.”
“Blimey, you’re right.” Ron froze for a second and then relaxed. “Well, it’ll have been for a good cause.”
Hermione rolled her eyes, grabbing her bag and adjusting her books. “Ron,” she said, giving him a stern look. “Lavender deserves to know that her effort is for naught. And she deserves that to be done with care, grace, and respect.”
“Merlin, witch, I was kidding. She’s sweet, but I think she’s confused about her feelings regarding Pansy Parkinson. I’ve seen the way she looks at that girl, kind of like how she looked at me.” He paused, and his eyes went into a contemplative haze. “I miss that feeling.”
“She looked like she was going to suck him dry,” Ginny licked some off the jam off her fingers.
“That’s how Neville looks at you all the time.”
“That’s disgusting, Harry! Keep that sort of rubbish to yourself.”
“We’re dating , Ron. What did you expect? It’s not all saint-like and innocent. In fact, Hermione, I would love an evening of your time for some raunchy developments to share.”
Hermione snorted, her face breaking into a grin. “I would love those earthy conversations. If we invite Luna, maybe she’ll bring the book she’s been reading.”
“Luna? Raunchy? Earthy? What kind of bloody conversations are you having?”
“Ones that would help you out quite a lot, Weasley.” Malfoy appeared at her shoulder, his hands resting in his pockets while he lazily looked over the lot of them.
“Bugger off, Malfoy, this doesn’t even concern you. ‘Mione, this is a direct attack on my being, my dignity .”
“You reap what you sow, Ronald.” Hermione shuffled over closer to Ron, making just enough space for Malfoy to settle down should he wish. She watched his eyes linger on the seat next to her, but when he made no move to sit, she felt her cheeks heat up in embarrassment. Had she misread his intentions?
Nott gave her a grin, leaning forward until his head hovered between Ginny and Harry’s shoulders. She snickered under her breath - in his aim to rile up Harry, he’d put himself on the opposite side of her. She could hear Harry gulp in response to his closeness. It would be wonderful, she supposed, if Harry would just snog the bloke. Letting his gaze burn Harry’s cheek, Nott grinned, “We’d love to sit and chat, Granger, but Malfoy and I promised we’d help Snape demonstrate some techniques for the first-year Potions lessons.”
Her shoulders visibly relaxed. She glanced up at Malfoy, “Oh, I see. Is there a reason you’re here?”
“Yeah, Draco, is there a reason why we’re here? Besides, of course, seeing the beauty that is Perfect Potter right here.”
Malfoy shot his best mate a glare. His hands brushed hers as he handed her a set of parchment sheets full of his neat penmanship. Prefect schedules - updated ones to account for the inter-house efforts that she’d somehow convinced him to integrate. She quickly parsed through them, running her gaze over his effortless letters and tried to see if she’d ever get a chance with him alone.
“Thank you for these, Malfoy,” she murmured, her eyes still flitting across the sheet. Then, she paused. Saturday nights. Malfoy had paired himself with her for Saturday night patrols.
“The most activity happens on the weekends, especially the Saturday night parties that the Houses throw and pretend that the Prefects and the Heads don’t know about them. Thought that between us, we might be able to let them have their fun and also be, relatively, safe about it.”
Right, parties. Those always happened on Saturday nights. But while his explanation for choosing that day appeared noble, the truth was far from it. In fact, because of the common room parties, it was less likely that anyone would be wandering the halls - there would barely be anyone that they would have to redirect to their beds, catch after curfew, or help resolve their issues. It would be an evening - and a late night, Hermione, much after midnight than she’d care to admit - where they would be plagued by a silence that only their conversations could deter.
November: Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw
The wind managed to make its way under her clothes. Hermione shivered against the sudden coldness on her midriff and crossed her arms around her waist, yanking the sides of the parker even tighter against her body. Still, she couldn’t look away from the quaffle tucked safely under Ginny’s arms as she soared through the skies.
“Look out!” Her breath caught in her throat. The bludger had just barely missed Ginny, having grazed the back of her robes near her feet. This was what Hermione hated about Quidditch; the constant worry and fear that something was going to happen to all three of her reckless friends. At least this time, there wasn’t someone chasing after Harry for her to be worried about the danger that he always found himself in.
Hermione leaned in closer. She had asked—no, begged—that they would play with a little more care for her nerves for once. But clearly, Ms. Ginny Weasley, chaser extraordinaire, had her own very obvious plan to ignore the one thing her best friend asked for her.
Luna unlinked their hands, opting to release herself from the nearly hand-breaking grip that Hermione had her in. The emptiness feeling too foreboding, she clung onto the loop of her scarf closest to her neck and leaned in even further. Unfortunately, maybe a little too far.
Her feet, too numb from standing for so long in the cold, stumbled over themselves and her hands released themselves from their tangled place by her throat, aimlessly trying to find something to grip into. Hermione closed her eyes in preparation for the impact.
But it never came.
A warm, jacketed arm had snaked its way around her waist, keeping her upright and steady. And warm. “Fancy falling off the stands, Granger?”
Her cheeks flushed and she tilted her head back, meeting Malfoy’s stormy grey eyes. She let him pull her back, her feet still unsteady, bumping into his chest from where it was bent from the step above her to grab her. She didn’t dare risk turning her face to her right, where the warmth from his chin was radiating into the tops of her shoulders.
“If it means getting away from you, then yes.”
“Ouch, that hurts.” She rolled her eyes, not that he could see it. Malfoy continued, “I was expecting a ‘thank-you’ for how I heroically saved your life.”
“I would’ve only toppled right into Dean, and he’d barely have been pushed. It would’ve been fine.” Hermione flinched. “But, thank you, Malfoy, for keeping me from cushioning my own fall.”
“You really do love having the last word.” Her waist suddenly felt cold as the warmth of his arm left her. “Alas, I’ll take what I can get. You’re welcome, Granger, it was truly my honour to be your knight in shining armour.”
Her breath caught in her throat, but she willed the words out of her mouth, near desperation to try and keep his flirtatious attitude and her desperately wanting feelings at bay. “Why exactly are you on our side of the stands?”
“Well, there aren’t really any ‘sides’ for Quidditch stands. And, what’s that I hear? Hermione Granger, the head girl, not pushing forward her favourite—and most voiced—agenda of house unity.” Malfoy bent over until his head hovered next to hers, the scent of Cedarwood overpowering her every sense.
“Oh, shut up.” She mumbled.
“Theo, did you hear that? Granger doesn’t want us near her.” Malfoy teased. Hermione felt a tug on one of her curls, having slipped away from where it was tucked inside her scarf.
Theo’s head dropped to her other side, a teasing lilt in his voice. “Gryffindors with their prejudices, Draco. What shall we do?”
“Such arses, both of you. Stop distracting me from the game. Besides, I think you lot will benefit from seeing how well Gryffindor play since you’ll be needing all the help you can get to beat us this year. You still won’t though.”
“And if we do?”
“You can never just speak normally in a conversation. Always with so many questions and demands.” Hermione pushed both their heads back, Theo’s a little more harshly than Malfoys, before turning on her spot to face them. “To answer your question, if you win the Quidditch tournament this year, I’ll give you one thing of your choosing.”
“ You’ll give me something? I’m a Malfoy, we already have everything we’d ever desire.” Malfoy leaned in again. She wanted to fall into him, fall so hard that his arms had to come up again, caging her. Hermione blinked furiously to stop her thoughts.
She huffed, “Well, there’s probably one thing you don’t have. And when you find it, I’ll give it to you if you win.”
“Is there a time deadline, Granger? And is transferable? As in, what if Draco doesn’t want anything and I do. Can I use his win?” Theo piped up, but Hermione didn’t dare take her eyes away from where they were caught in Malfoy’s.
“Don’t answer him. Regardless of the transfer potential, I wouldn’t give it to anyone else.”
And her heart thudded.
December
If there’s anything to be grateful for, she supposed it had to be how much prep for the Yule ball, Head duties, and keeping Harry from combusting everytime Nott entered his vicinity, had kept her too busy to think about the late nights she was pulling with Malfoy.
Malfoy, who Hermione felt like was made for winter, with his blond hair almost the same colour as the freshly fallen snow on the grounds. Malfoy, who had started to wear the softest looking cashmere pullovers, forcing Hermione to swallow in desperation to keep herself from throwing herself at him. And Merlin, Malfoy, who had a sweet tooth that rivaled Ron’s with the number of mugs of hot chocolate she would find peppered throughout their common room.
Hermione should be compensated for how much control she was demonstrating in this moment alone, watching his back while he drew his wand through the air to put the last mistletoe into place in the Great Hall.
“Hermione?” Harry’s voice cut through her admiration for Malfoy’s back. “Did you want me to confirm anything else with Fred and George while I’m heading into Hogsmead this afternoon?”
“Oh, I think just let them know about the fireworks that we’d like to purchase,” she confirmed, already going through her mental checklist, thoughts that had ventured into taking advantage of mistletoe with Malfoy taking a step back. For a moment, Hermione wondered if she should go to Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes herself and grab a hold of a Patented Daydream Charm. “And please remind them that they’re not to sneak into the castle on the night off to try and market any of their other products to the younger —especially with a certain invisible cloak.” She threw a pointed look at Harry.
He, in turn, winced, caught in the act. “They just want to show off some of their products. It’ll be safe, I guarantee it, Hermione!”
She raised an eyebrow, “Safe?”
Harry’s eyes flickered to something behind her. Hermione didn’t have to turn around to know who it was; she could feel the heat radiating from where he stood, closer than she was used to—closer than what was good for her. Harry shrugged, “Mostly?”
“Come on, Granger, live a little!”
She whipped her head to the side, fixing Malfoy with a scruitinous look. “And this would have nothing to do with the vested interest you have in making sure that your investment into the company generates profit?”
“Investment?” Harry sputtered. He looked between the two of them, his actions akin to a bobblehead charm. “You invested in their joke shop?”
Malfoy rolled his eyes. Hermione’s throat dried instantly when she saw his arms cross. Merlin have mercy on the teased. “The Weasley’s have done a fantastic job with their products. As the heir to the Malfoy forturne—” Harry choked on a laugh, immediately shutting up when Malfoy shot him a dirty look. “—it’s only proper that I take a look in what will increase our profits.”
“Good grief, Malfoy.” Throwing him an incredulous look, Harry quickly made his exit. “Alright, I’ll make sure they hear your threat loud and clear, Hermione.”
As Harry disappeared through the doors, Hermione let out a slow breath, brushing an imaginary wrinkle from her sleeve, mostly to distract herself from the way Malfoy’s presence loomed behind her like a particularly smug thundercloud.
“You know,” he drawled, stepping beside her now, far too close for comfort, “for someone who’s so quick to judge, you seem awfully invested in my investments.”
Hermione scoffed, folding the plans for the decor into a neat square and crossing her arms, refusing to look directly at him. “I’m just trying to keep you from turning the Yule Ball into a sponsored event.”
“Don’t tempt me. Imagine it. ‘Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes proudly presents: A Night of Explosive Romance.’” His smirk was wicked, voice low and warm. “I could even make badges.”
Hermione finally turned to face him—and regretted it immediately. His eyes sparkled like he knew every thought she’d tried to bury that morning. The ones about the snow. The jumpers. The stupid hot chocolate.
“You’re impossible.”
“You say impossible,” he paused for effect, “I say determined.”
He moved in even closer, their heads nearly touching. If she moved up onto the tips of her toes, just a little bit, their lips would brush and wasn’t that a tempting thought? Instead, she pushed further into her heels, holding herself back from making what would be a very risky decision.
Highly rewarding, but incredibly risky.
“Determined for what?” Her words came out nearly breathless. Hermione couldn’t take her eyes off him, though, and a good thing at that, or she would have missed the nearly imperceptible widening of his eyes. It was brief and gone in a flash as his eyes settled into something more mischievous. Something brushed the side of her hand—his fingers —and Hermione nearly buckled at the sheer teasingness of it all.
The corners of his mouth turned up slightly. If she wasn’t so familiar with Malfoy’s expression—and she would never admit that—she would’ve thought he smirked. “Determined to make this Yule Ball unforgettable,” he finished, voice low and dangerous. His hand plucked the folded plans out of hers, neatly tucking them into his pockets.
“And if I play my cards right, Granger,” he added, brushing past her with the barest graze of his hand, “maybe I’ll be your favourite part of it.”
Merlin. Hermione looked up at the enchanted ceiling. She was going to need to get those Patented Daydream Charms as soon as she could.
January: Slytherin versus Ravenclaw
As much as Hermione hated to admit, she and Quidditch existed in an orbit with one another. The further she tried to run, the closer it followed. If she tried to avoid any of the Quidditch games at Hogwarts, some way or another, she would find herself looking on, her eyes trained to follow one body in particular.
It started out with Harry where she would go down to the stands and pray—for the love of Merlin—for a single game where Harry Potter was not being cursed, injured, haunted, hunted, or whatever else, even if he was supposed to be part of the audience. And for herself, it started with a single game where she didn’t have to spend the next several weeks figuring out who was chasing after him. She endured scheming non-professors, dementors, and an extremely (and unnecessarily) overenthusiastic Cormac McLaggen, who somehow had managed to make his way onto the team and had made it her his prize to be won.
But lately, something had changed.
Well, no, only one thing had changed.
At first, it itched at her brain, tugging and pulling every bit of her energy into a singular focal point. It wasn’t the way that his hands moved, twisting and flicking his wrist as he practiced the wand movements. And definitely not the way his hair glowed in the barely there light of the potions classroom as he sliced the ginger, thin stripes instead of the chunks that she saw on Ronald’s bench.
And it absolutely couldn’t—absolutely couldn’t—have been the sharpness of his jaw, the movements entrancing Hermione as he spoke to the rest of the prefects. She had almost snapped her neck in the effort of avoiding being caught by his gaze.
Oh, all right. She could admit when she was wrong. It was only a singular change, a shift really. From Ron to Malfoy. Nothing more than a teenage crush, she promised herself.
So here she was, her scarf not enough to keep her nose warm and her fingers shoved into her pockets, wrapping around charmed heat packs, that Hermione watched with eyes trained on the Slytherin seeker.
“Are you warm enough?” Harry whispered, angling his body towards her. Hermione leaned in towards him.
“Yes, thank you, Harry.” He smiled back her. Hermione grinned inwardly; despite trying to look like he wasn’t paying attention to the boy in the stands to the right of them, Harry’s eyes kept flickering just about beyond her head to the brown-haired man in the stands to their right. She smiled knowingly. “Looking for something?”
His head flicked towards her. She smirked, “Ah, sorry, looking for someone ?”
Harry choked a bit, taken aback, before facing the field again and muttering under his breath. “No, um, just looking around.”
His cheeks tinged pink. It was no secret that Harry had a huge crush on Theo Nott. In fact, it was a topic that brought Ron and her immense pleasure during their talks in the common room. Harry had always insisted that it was one-sided and that there was no way, absolutely no way, that the Theodore Nott would see him as anything other than the Boy-Who-He-Lived-To-Annoy.
“Sure, mate, ‘looking around’,” Ron made quotations with his fingers, throwing her a grin that she returned with matching fervor. She turned to face the game, watching as the quaffle got tossed between the Slytherins as they snaked around the Ravenclaw chasers.
“Ouch! Bloody hell, fine, I won’t bring up your love life. Merlin.” Ron rubbed his side where Harry had elbowed him. “I really hope Slytherin wins so we can pummel them in the finals.”
“They’ve been playing quite aggressively lately. I hate to admit it, but Malfoy’s done well as a Captain.”
"That’s just because Snape keeps letting them have the Quidditch pitch even when other teams have booked it. They’re cheating, I’m telling ya,” Ron mumbled, still rubbing his side as he made a face.
Harry threw his hands in the air, “I don’t know, Ron. I heard that Malfoy’s being scouted by a couple of Quidditch teams. He doesn’t just rely on his talent; I’ve seen him spend hours over Quidditch plans.”
“Oh yeah, Harry? Where’d you hear that from?” Hermione asked, her eyes alight with mirth. She grabbed his mitten-clad hand in hers and shoved them further into his pocket in an effort to stay warm. She’d tried putting a warming charm on all three of them before they’d left the castle but the frigid winter air was worse than she’d imagined.
“ … Theo.” Harry tried to pull his hand away from her, but she didn’t relent.
Ron teased, “Theo?”
“Shut up, Ron,” he grumbled, no longer fighting against Hermione’s grip.
She took pity on the poor soul, “Alright, alright. Honestly, I can see Malfoy going for a Quidditch career. But they’ve also been coming for you lot.”
“Us?”
“Yeah, all three of you, including Ginny, even though she still has another year before she’s graduated.” There was no doubt that Ginny was going to make it onto a professional team. She’d been making plans for her Quidditch career for as long as anyone would listen. The boys, however, Hermione wasn’t entirely sure if they’d wanted to pursue it or not.
“Huh. I didn’t realize.”
Malfoy’s figure suddenly swerved to the right, chasing after the tiniest glint in the night—how he could even see a single thing, Hermione had no idea. As he gained on the snitch, Hermione couldn’t help but see how magical this sport really was.
It felt like a dance, one in the middle of the moonlight where, despite the crowds screaming around her, the only thing that mattered was the man in green chasing after his prize. Even through her binoculars, she could see the sharpness in his eyes, his jaw clenched harder with every passing second, and, Merlin, how his thighs gripped the broom below him.
Alright, fine. Hermione could admit that the slight bit of interest she’d sparked for Malfoy when he sauntered into the Heads carriage on the train, the shiny badge hung proudly on his cloak, had morphed into something more than interest. Something more akin to attraction. The summer had served him well, was all she could say about the matter.
No, now it was so much more. Malfoy was fit.
Her cheeks were heating up and she prayed that Ron didn’t turn to face her. It was fun teasing Harry about his very obvious and very blatant crush on Theo, (how could you not when Harry would make excuses about how the instructions on the board were too big and distracting so of course he had to move to the furthest row where conveniently Theodore Nott, Slytherin extraordinaire, sat), but she was aware of the pensieve expression that would rest on Ron’s face as Malfoy entered a room.
He was bound to catch on and if Ron teasing Harry was bad enough, he would obliterate Hermione.
A flash of blonde caught her eye, digging her out of her reverie. She leaned forward, the edges of her scarf touching the top of Neville’s shoulders in front of her. She dug her fingers hard into Neville and the other ripped away from Harry’s to bring the binoculars around her neck up to her face. Malfoy shot towards the ground, his hand still outstretched. The hand gripping his broomstick was paler than she’d ever seen him.
He kept going.
“He’s going to let up, right?’ Hermione muttered towards Harry. “Harry?”
She quickly glanced over, anxiety bubbling up in her chest when she realized neither Harry nor Ron were breathing, just as focused as she felt.
“I don’t know, ‘Mione. I’ve pulled that before, but it was pure recklessness. Blimey, I was 11 then, and skinny, barely anything more than just skin and bones. I’ve changed since then, I wouldn’t pull thi—”
Her heart felt caught in her throat, her skin itched, and all she wanted in that moment was to jump off the ledge of the stands and pull him to safety. Harry’s words echoed around her, never making through the chaos yet numbness in her mind.
Malfoy. Pull up, Malfoy.
“ Malfoy, pull up!” His head snapped towards her, eyes widening, but his hands had already wrapped themselves around the snitch, the wings flapping useless against the sides of his fist.
Malfoy had caught the snitch. Slytherin had won.
Around her, the cheers were immeasurable. Ravenclaws were huddled together, dejected but having not yet given up. Hufflepuffs never picked sides until it was their own match and that was when, somehow, the friendliest bunch became some of the deadliest. (Or at least that’s what Ron claimed; he swore that one of them tried cursing the bludger to always chase him.) Gryffindor bellowed, the prospect of defeating the currently obnoxiously overjoyed Slytherins at the Quidditch finals now at the forefront of their minds.
Still, even with the deafening cheers surrounding them, Hermione’s eyes never left Malfoy’s, trapped in his clutches. Her heart thudded in her chest as the corners of his lips slowly turned up, a ghost of a smirk on his otherwise impassive face, and just when Hermione thought she wouldn’t be able to breathe for even a moment more, he looked away.
The spell was broken.
She let Harry drag her by the arm, following Ron as he pushed past other students in a focused beeline towards Pansy Parkinson.
“Parkinson!” Ron grinned. “Let us in on your celebration.”
Pansy raised her eyebrows, tilting her head to the side in an almost bored fashion. Looking him up and down, she drawled, “And why would I do that?”
She didn’t think it was possible for Ron’s face to brighten. He gave her a quick conspiratorial glance, and naturally, Hermione turned away with a roll of her eyes. It wasn’t difficult to guess what he was going to say. Hermione didn’t particularly like it when they broke rules like this, considering both the Head Girl and Head Boy would be at the site of the crime, but Harry had already used his best ‘Boy-Who-Lived-A-Sad-Life-And-Just-Wanted-To-Celebrate’ card on her earlier in the day.
“We’ll supply the …” Ron looked around for dramatic effect. The remainder of his words went unheard.
“Fine. You lot can come. A 1-1 proportion should be most appropriate.” One bottle per entry—Merlin, the Slytherins knew how to run a business. “Granger, you can turn around now. The secret dealings are done.” Hermione turned around, her arms crossed. “Ah, and just in case either of you were wondering,” her words dripped with mirth as she looked at Harry, “Theo’s been extremely excited about fraternizing with the enemy.” Pansy narrowed her eyes and spun on her heel, walking towards the Slytherin common room.
The moment she disappeared, Ron let out a laugh. She followed; it was hard to hold her own back too.
Harry groaned, his hands coming to tangle in his already tangled hair. “Why would I care?”
“Because you loooooove him,” Ron teased. Hermione linked her hands with Harry’s again in an effort to keep his hair from getting worse.
When Ginny first asked her how she felt about Malfoy, she vehemently denied it, citing how the differences between the two were too strong to conceive the potential for a relationship. But after a few days, and an intense analysis of her reactions to his mere presence (even in a space as big as the Great Hall), she sat the girl down on her bed, cast a Muffliato , and explained.
It wasn’t like she meant to like Malfoy - it was Malfoy! Never in her wildest dreams did she imagine she’d hold a torch for him. But when it came down to it, she prided herself on somehow muttering his intellect as her main source of attraction; she wasn’t lying, per se, but it wasn’t completely honest.
Sometimes she wished that the odd fascination that she had with Malfoy was just that - a brief moment of interest. Unfortunately, as much as she would love to deny that, something was hiding under the pretense of mild curiosity that she couldn’t help but accept.
Her curiosity had been sparked by how well he performed in the lessons they shared, having accidentally glanced at his results for his Potions essay once, but it had been sustained by one instance of having seen him shirtless after Quidditch practice one September afternoon. After that, it kept tumbling into a bumbling mess of feelings she didn’t particularly want to sort through.
Ginny had replied appropriately, asking about the physique that caught Hermione in Malfoy’s web, and Hermione hissed in response, glancing nervously at the door to her bedroom as if Malfoy would be listening to their conversation from the other side. Then, she leaned closer towards the redhead, closing her eyes and whispered about how she dreamt about him for days after that incident.
Now, whenever Ginny got the chance, she’d bring up Malfoy after a shower, after a match, in the morning, whenever really, and Hermione couldn’t deny that her face would heat up every single time.
February — Valentine’s Day
Hermione hated it. The floating pink hearts, the small gifts that exploded into rose petals (the newest Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes product), and the lovestruck couples that simpered over one another in the middle of the hall.
She had half a mind to stop it all, taking points away in seconds and serving detentions the next day. But that was inappropriate. Hermione couldn’t misuse her responsibility and privilege of being Head Girl for something as asinine as her intense dislike for Valentine’s Day.
Slamming the Heads common door behind her, she grumbled her way to the couch, throwing her heavy bag on top, a thud sounding as it hit the surface. She knelt to rest her knees on the floor while she pulled out sheets and ink from her bag, placing it onto the coffee table in front of her. Her hands gripped onto the parchment paper as she wrote a heavily worded letter to Fred and George, full of beratements about the absolutely irresponsible products they had been selling to school children.
“—bloody juvenile.” Hermione ground her teeth.
“What is?” She snapped her head up, immediately regretting it when she saw the glasses perched on top of Malfoy’s nose.
Fuck.
Glasses.
Merlin.
Glasses.
Fuck Merlin’s saggy tit.
Malfoy in glasses.
“Huh?”
By the kettle, with his hips cocked against the counter, Malfoy quirked an eyebrow, “What is juvenile?”
Hermione groaned, trying to control her heart from beating right out of her chest, “This day! And every day that leads up to it, honestly.”
He let out a soft laugh, moving towards the table where she’s spread out her parchment and ink in a rush, sitting down on the couch, his knees right next to her shoulder. Malfoy looked down at her, propping his head up with an elbow placed on his knee. She wanted to scream—he just looked so soft against the forest green of his pullover.
“It’s not entirely terrible. Theo’s having a wonderful time chasing Potter with those serenades that he’s convinced some of the ghosts (mostly Peeves) to help him with.”
“That might be the only tolerable part of this day,” she hesitated for a second before leaning her head against his knee. Malfoy tensed his knee; she could feel it, but it was too late to take it away now. She had made a decision, as risky as it might’ve been.
All too quickly, Malfoy relaxed. “Besides, watching Weasley decidedly flirt with both Pansy and Lovegood has been incredibly interesting.”
“Lavender’s practically frothing at the mouth. She never thought she’d have to compete with her own ex-boyfriend to compete for her new crush.” Hermione chuckled.
“If you ask me, I think Weasley can’t choose.”
“Uh, uh,” she turned her head to give him a conspiratorial smile, “Ron wants to be with both of them. He likes both of them.” She shrugged, the smallest movement so that she didn’t jostle his knee too much—the moment a bit too precious and rare.
“As in, in bed ?” Malfoy breathed out.
“Nope,” she popped the ‘P’. “Ron wants to date both of them.”
He nodded, seriously appraising the thought, “Then I wish him the best of luck.”
“That’s rare—you being so kind to Ron.”
“Ah, and that’s why you know it’s sincere.” She smiled, lifting her head to focus on the letter in front of her. “You didn’t tell me why today’s so juvenile,” he continued, pointing at the ink, “or why you look like you’re on a mission.”
She sighed. “It’s just a strongly worded letter to the twins about how close I am to getting their products, specifically Love Potions, banned from Hogwarts. In between people falling over each other, I’m tired of separating people after they’ve eaten laced chocolates. But at least I don’t have to worry about that.”
“What? No chocolates for you then.”
She twirled her quill in her hand, “You need to be given something to be worried about ingesting Love Potions, Malfoy.”
“No one gave you anything?” He sounded shocked.
“Only Harry and Ron. Sugar Quills from Honeyduke’s.”
“Well then, consider me lucky to be able to give you something.”
She snapped her head up, the shock clear on her face. Her voice cracked a little bit, and she pushed the mortification she felt aside, “You got me something?”
“It’s small, but I thought you would enjoy having something that wasn’t laced, or exploded or—I don’t even know what else people keep throwing around at each other.” Malfoy pushed his glasses up a little before digging into his pocket for the gift.
“Thank you,” she whispered, taking the small, red box in her hands and pulling the ribbon undone. Inside, small chocolates—the ones she actually loved—sit in a heart shape.
Malfoy nodded, his knees cracking a bit as he got up, moving towards their small kitchenette where the kettle had started to whistle.
“I promise I won’t read too far into it.”
It was moments later, when a piping cup of Earl Grey was placed next to her ink pot, that she heard his reply. “Don’t promise, Granger. I’d like you to look into it.”
And then the door eased shut behind him, the silence that followed somehow louder than before. Silence that fought hard against the beat of her heart, thumping against her ears.
April: Slytherin vs Hufflepuff
“What is it, Malfoy?”
Malfoy looked at her, eyes hard. “I heard that you agreed to go on a date with Finch-Fletchley.”
“It’s not a date.” She grumbled, trying to move past him to the exit to their common room where he’d parked himself in front of her. Immovable bloody beast.
Malfoy blocked her, stepping to the right and cutting her off from her exit strategy. She frowned, crossing her arms over the Slytherin shirt that Theo insisted she wear for this match, and leaned back into her heels. “That’s not what I’ve heard. He’s been going around babbling about how he’ll be taking the Golden Girl to the final match of the season.”
She blinked. “Really? He asked me if he could sit in the Gryffindor stands with the rest of us for the match, considering Hufflepuff didn’t make it to the finals. He said he would meet me under the stands.”
“Granger,” Malfoy groaned, running his hands through his hair. Hermione wanted to pull them away, stop him and then replace his hands with hers. “Did you agree?”
“Well, yes,” she replied, her shoulders tightening up, “I was going to suggest meeting at the Great Hall, but I thought it would be easier this way.”
“The stands are the Quidditch equivalent of the broom closet. He asked you for a snog, and you said yes.” He spoke to her like she was a child.
Hermione glared at him, “But I didn’t know. Regardless, Justin isn’t like that, and if that is, in fact, his intention, well, maybe I could use a good snog.”
Malfoy squeezed his eyes, his jaw clenching. Hermione felt her stomach tighten. The butterflies she was so used to feeling around him started to flutter again. “Do you even know him, Granger? When have you ever spent any time with him?”
“We’ve had Ancient Runes together for the past three years. Sometimes, we pair up, and he’s been extremely agreeable to work with, unlike you.”
“When have I not been agreeable? If I recall, I treat you with respect.”
“You’re constantly complaining about me to Nott and Zabini. I’ve heard you say it before: ‘Working with Granger is the worst. It’s like talking to a wall - might have been better for me to get an actual Firebolt 4302, then at least I would’ve gotten somewhere.’ I -” her voice cracked. “I heard you say it.”
“Granger, you’ve got it wrong.”
Her voice came out defeated, “Of course, that’s what you’ll say.”
“No, Granger. Fuck, I don’t have time for this.”
“What? ” Malfoy flinched at the steel in her tone.
“No, th-that’s not what I meant,” Malfoy sighed. He ran his hands through his hair, tousling it enough that a few stray strands fell right into his eyes. “I have to go for training—I can’t be late, as Captain. I’ll leave you with this, and please, for fuck’s sake, listen to it, read about it, ask the Weaselette. But don’t come to your half-arsed conclusions.”
“I don’t—” Hermione started, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. She sucked in a quick breath as Malfoy’s hand settled on her jaw, his thumb lightly brushing her heated cheek. Hermione couldn’t take her eyes away from where he had caught them with his alluring grey ones.
“When I meant to ask you if you were a Firebolt 4302, I meant to follow up with,” and he leaned in closer to her ear. His warm breath washed over the shell of her ear, and she felt her hands move on their own accord, clutching the front of his shirt. “Because you sweep me off my feet.”
With Malfoy’s words shifting around in her mind, she didn’t hesitate to find Justin at dinner, merely steps away from where Malfoy sat, and ask point-blank about whether or not he thought of this as a date. And when he said yes, she turned him down, citing lack of Quidditch-related interest as their reason for incompatibility.
And when she felt Malfoy’s stare burn into her from the interaction, she didn’t hold back her smile.
“Are you going to rub it in his face this entire night?”
“Of course, Granger,” he smirked, bringing his hand up to her face. The Snitch’s golden wings fluttered lightly, “It’s only polite to remind Potter that he lost his chance at the cup in his final year.”
“I don’t know, Malfoy.” Hermione took a step closer. Her heart pounded, rattling her chest as she couldn’t figure out the source of her sudden courage. “I think he’s too busy snogging the life out of Nott in front of the punch to truly care for what you have to say.”
“I didn’t host the party in the Slytherin common room so that he could snog Theo. But I suppose I should let him be; he’s finally gained awareness.”
“Oh, leave him be. He had this beautiful plan about winning and using the Snitch to profess his undying love for Nott. Something about how he’s still more beautiful than the Snitch.”
“I doubt Theo will care about some sappy rubbish like that; he’s prepared a full pounce-and-snog - his words, not mine.” His eyes lingered on the back of his best friend. Theo had been ranting and raving for the past few days, spewing something about how it was no wonder that Potter never had lasting damage, his skull was as thick as iron. Regardless, Theo had a plan, and he wasn’t going to let Potter’s plan deter him.
He turned his attention back to the witch in front of him. “And my, my, Granger. For someone who is the biggest know-it-all of our generation, you clearly don’t know the phrase.” Malfoy leaned in, his warm breath tickling the shell of her ears. His hands slid around her waist and tightened. “Granger, I’m holding the Snitch, and yet, you’re by far the best catch.”
“You haven’t caught me yet.” She breathed out. Her tongue unconsciously licked her rapidly drying lips.
For a moment, she thought she saw Malfoy startle a bit, but before she could really take a look, his lips pulled into a smirk. “Are you sure about that?” His grip around her waist tightened. “I would say the exact opposite.”
“What? No flirty pick-up line?” His eyes dropped to her lips.
She leaned even closer to hear his words, barely audible to even her. “Only one per occasion. Keeps the element of surprise.”
“It’s not a surprise if I already know you’ll be using one.” Hermione pressed her lips to his jaw.
Years later, when Malfoy’s run through every single Quidditch-related pick-up line he had in him, and after multiple repeats, as they’re standing in front of the pitch on Hogwarts, he’ll find one more buried deep inside him.
One that he saved for this moment alone.
Malfoy stopped in front of the goalposts, turned to her with that glint in his eye, and pulled a Snitch from his pocket. She narrowed her eyes instantly. “No,” she said, already smiling. “Not another one.”
He spun it once in his palm. “Come on, Granger. You’ve always secretly loved them.”
She rolled her eyes, “You once told me I was ‘more confusing than a reversed Wronski Feint.’ That’s not even technically a pick-up line.”
“True,” he said, stepping closer, slipping into that familiar, insufferable charm, “but this one’s good .”
He cleared his throat dramatically.
“Granger,” he began, already on one knee, his hands reaching into his pocket.
Hermione could barely respond, her face choked up and cheeks burning bright. “Malfoy.”
The sun was setting behind them, a golden hue reaching past the hills and nearly blinding her with how it surrounded Malfoy—no— Draco, as she calls him when she’s carding her hands through his hair on their couch; or when she’s peppering kisses on every sun-kissed freckle that has appeared after beach-filled summers; or when she was calling his name from under him, writhing against their rumpled bedsheets.
He cleared his throat dramatically. “Did it hurt when you fell from the Astronomy Tower?”
She groaned. “Malfoy.”
“Because it looked brutal. Took you forever to recover. Head over heels, Granger—it’s a long drop.”
She was full-on laughing now, swatting at his shoulder, half-embarrassed, half-glowing. “It’s not even a Quidditch pun! You are the worst,” she muttered.
Then he sobered just slightly, voice lower, the teasing in his voice masked with something much more raw. “No, really. I do have one more.”
He pressed the Snitch into her palm. It opened—quietly, deliberately. Inside is a ring.
Hermione reached to press her free hand to her mouth, quiet awe with unimaginable emotion running through her. Draco didn’t let her, grabbing it swiftly to press is against his lips before moving to hold it against his chest. “You told me that I could make a choice.”
“And this is what you’re choosing?” She croaked out, every semblance of keeping her tears at bay futile.
“No, darling, I made that choice a long time ago. I’m surprised you never caught on.”
“You never asked anything of me.”
His eyes twinkled. Draco brought her hand up to his lips again, “I chose you all those years ago. And today, I’m asking you to make a choice.”
Nodding her head, Hermione moved down onto her knees, removing her hand from where it was pressed against his with the snitch between them, until it cupped his cheeks, tinged with pink from the chilly evening breeze. “Ask me.”
“Would you, Hermione Granger, marry me? Preferably to beat the eventual Potter-Nott brood at Quidditch games with our own Granger-Malfoy hellions?”
Hermione laughed, pushing forward. Her lips pressed tightly against his, a soft whisper of “Yes, I will. ”