"So what now?" Hermione sighed, eyeing the sealed door with mounting frustration.
"I don't bloody know. Contrary to popular belief, I didn't attend Lockpicking for Dunderheads," Draco snapped, giving her a withering sidelong glance. "Just because I'm Slytherin doesn't mean I moonlight as a cat burglar."
"Oh, spare me the wounded pride act," Hermione retorted, rolling her eyes skyward. "Everyone knows your lot practise pilfering from the cradle. It's practically part of your House curriculum."
"I shan't dignify that with a response," he drawled, examining his immaculate cuticles.
"Focus, you prat. How do we crack this blasted door?"
He ignored her, still in a strop over being labeled a common thief. With an aristocratic huff, he pivoted away to glower at the ghastly bubblegum walls festooned with throbbing hearts and animated lip decals blowing revolting kisses at random intervals.
“You’d think a former Death Eater would be resourceful,” she muttered loud enough for his pointy ears to catch.
"Ah yes, because the Dark Lord was absolutely obsessed with escape strategies for teenaged love rooms in magical funfairs," Draco drawled sarcastically. "Top of his evil agenda, that was. Sadly, I skived off that particular meeting. Had a pressing hair appointment, you understand."
“I knew it! I knew you had hair days because in what universe does hair look like that naturally?” She gestured wildly at his infuriatingly perfect platinum locks.
“Jealous, Granger?” He smirked, tilting his head just enough to make the light catch in his stupid, silken strands.
"What possible use would a bloke have for decent hair? You lot don't fuss over it, you couldn't care less about proper conditioning, and your life continues quite merrily whether it resembles a bird's nest or not. Simply chop it off and carry on." She folded her arms across her chest with a harrumph.
“That,” he said, inspecting his signet ring with feigned fascination, “is precisely the sort of gibberish that gets people slotted into definitive social circles.”
”What does that mean, exactly?”
"Merely that just because Saint Potter parades around with a mop resembling a banshee's backside, and Weaselbee's ginger catastrophe defies both gravity and good taste, which certainly qualifies as flagrant disregard for basic societal standards you claim to uphold, doesn't mean the civilized among us share their philistine approach. Elegant presentation is an art form, though I scarcely expect you to grasp the nuance. Tell me, are all Muggles such uncouth ragamuffins?"
"You're only cheeky enough to spout this bollocks because we've been stripped of our wands."
"I'm not remotely intimidated by you, Granger. Let's escape this pink hellscape, and I'll trounce you in a proper wizard's duel."
"You wouldn't recognize a proper duel if it hexed you between the eyes, Hair Boy."
“My, the resentment runs deep.”
"If you'd kindly shut your gob for half a minute, perhaps we might devise an exit strategy from this nightmare." She traced her manicured fingertips along the door frame once more, mentally cursing Ginny and her barmy schemes. Ever since the redhead had taken up with Zabini, they'd been inseparable like conjoined twins, sickeningly affectionate as mating swans in a blizzard. Why had she agreed to this ridiculous Valentine carnival? And more critically, why had she been dumped into this absurd game with none other than Draco sodding Malfoy when neither of them could stand to breathe the same air?
“This is all your fault, you know.” his voice murmured, suddenly closer than comfort permitted.
"Oh brilliant, remind me how I masterminded this entire fiasco, forced you into the magical labyrinth against your will, and nicked your wand for good measure."
"Had you not crossed the threshold first, Blaise wouldn't have been presented such a golden opportunity."
"Oh, sod off! My toe barely grazed the boundary while Ginny was distracting me with her prattle," she huffed exasperatedly.
Curse Ginevra Weasley to the depths of wizarding hell. Hermione should have sussed that disaster loomed the moment her ginger companion suggested this Valentine extravaganza in Sussex; one of countless magical festivities this month designed to erase the war's lingering shadows. For three tiresome years, the Ministry had orchestrated these gaudy celebrations, desperately throwing the magical community together at every conceivable holiday in a transparent bid for unity. She'd always dismissed it as government propaganda bollocks; who could possibly fall for such thinly veiled reconciliation attempts? Yet judging by the swelling crowds at these events, the Ministry had stumbled onto something effective. Magical Britain was rapidly becoming the tourist hotspot for international wizarding communities, explaining Ronald's new squeeze, Katie something or the other, whom he'd pulled at the Edinburgh Christmas Magical Wonder fest just weeks ago.
She groaned inwardly. None of this helped her current predicament. Bloody Ginny knew precisely what she was doing by bringing her to Valentine-fest-no-Wands-allowed. "Embrace the magic of love without Magic!" What absolute wanker penned that nauseating slogan? When she'd surrendered her wand at the entrance, after Zabini made a theatrical production of paying for their tickets, she'd known this day was utterly doomed. His besotted girlfriend had dragged her through revolting displays of pinks and reds, heart-shaped confetti erupting from every direction, floating cherubs with fluttering wings shooting love bubbles at passersby. Zabini indulged every whim of his better half like a lovesick puppy, purchasing artisanal chocolates and sweets with abandon. Hermione's eyes had nearly detached from excessive rolling at their repellant public displays of affection, for the couple was exceptionally hands-on, kiss-happy, and perpetually giggling. A monumental migraine seemed inevitable.
They'd been loitering at yet another tacky stall, some asinine game involving catching enchanted rubber ducks that rewarded winners with Valentine-themed hair accessories, when she spotted Malfoy lurking on the periphery, observing them with amused detachment while nibbling a crimson candy apple, because naturally, no other color could exist on this blasted day.
"Drakeeeey, you made it!" Blaise, whose wreath featured animated hearts and whistling lovebirds, greeted his mate with exaggerated enthusiasm, flailing his arms wildly and chortling uncontrollably.
"Blaise?" Malfoy's trademark smirk intensified as he regarded his clearly sugar-intoxicated friend.
"Look who's graced us with her presence! The golden girl herself! Feast your eyes, Drakey, just look!" Blaise gestured dramatically toward Hermione's and she had never wanted to hex someone so much in her life. Because of course, just of course, her waist length hair had somehow been transfigured into a grotesque monstrosity of singing Valentine accessories, all violently red, all shrilling in harmony.
Draco's stormy eyes darkened upon meeting Hermione's thunderous scowl at the unwelcome intrusion of one ferrety ex-Death Eater, whose presence was as desirable as Dragon Pox at a wedding. To her dismay, he had been appearing in her social circle lately, thanks to her best friend’s beau.
The day had spiralled after that.
Ginny and Blaise stopped at every garish attraction, now openly exchanging tonsil-hockey and enthusiastically groping each other's shirts, hair, chests, and buttocks to prove some point about young love, while their respective friends struggled to maintain a semblance of propriety amidst throngs who seemed collectively determined to redefine public indecency.
Hermione wondered if someone was pumping Amortentia through the ventilation because couples were engaged in affectionate pawing and raucous giggling everywhere she glanced. Yet that theory collapsed spectacularly when her gaze landed on the one wizard she genuinely couldn't abide, standing mere meters away like a marble statue amongst garden gnomes, his bespoke suit impeccably tailored, jawline sharp enough to slice parchment, and artfully tousled hair gleaming under the fairy lights. He laughed at something Ginny said, eyes crinkling at the corners, and Hermione's overwhelming impulse was to kick his shins and command him to cease existing in her vicinity.
And now look where her miserable luck had landed her, trapped in this abominable room because she was distracted by Ginny's incessant chatter. Upon reflection, the redhead had clearly maneuvered her deliberately toward the maze's boundary. The moment her foot crossed that invisible line, the labyrinth sealed itself with towering pink hedges, cutting off her companions from view as nauseatingly romantic Versailles-esque melodies filled the air, accompanied by an ominous sultry countdown. Hermione hadn't grasped its significance until Malfoy suddenly tackled her to the ground, his lean frame pinning her down as he cursed venomously, promising Zabini a creative and painful demise upon their eventual escape.
They'd had no choice but to navigate the ridiculous labyrinth, enchanted to test participants on various romantic trivia spanning love ballads, famous wizarding couples, romantic literature, love potions, and other soppy nonsense. It was a testament to Hermione's legendary self-restraint that she hadn't attempted wandless hexing every time Malfoy smugly provided the answer before her, casting that signature condescending sneer before swaggering toward the next challenge. Even in dire circumstances, her competitive nature burned fiercely, and it infuriated her beyond measure that the pretentious git consistently outpaced her.
And here they stood now, confronting yet another tasteless puzzle guarding a talking door that promised, with dubious reliability, to be their final hurdle before claiming victory.
"Had your clumsy foot not breached the boundary, we wouldn't be suffering this garish nightmare," Malfoy muttered.
"It's hardly my fault you got shoved in after me!" Hermione retorted.
"It's a couples' bloody maze, Granger. Entry requires a pair. Blaise had little alternative but to send me tumbling after you."
"I'd have preferred literally anyone else, Filch, Trelawney, the Giant Squid, take your pick." She returned to scrutinizing the room for clues. "And why are you hovering so blasted close?"
"Perhaps you've failed to notice, Morgana Le Fay, but the walls are steadily encroaching."
"What fresh hell is this? Is this their twisted concept of entertainment? Are we to be flattened like pancakes for Valentine amusement?"
"Bit dramatic, aren't we, poppet?" He rolled his eyes extravagantly. "Obviously, we're meant to perform some specific action to halt their progress."
She inhaled deeply, summoning patience. She could solve this. Brightest witch of the bloody age and all that. Nearly sorted into Ravenclaw, for Merlin's sake. The unrivaled enigma solver; Luna Lovegood had nothing on her! She required clear thoughts. Another steadying breath, and she became acutely aware of his cologne; an intoxicating blend of spiced amber, tobacco leaf, and possibly oud? Maddening how divine it smelled... but focus!
Her ears suddenly detected a rhythmic pattern amongst the ambient noise. Kissing sounds emanating from those vulgar posters adorning the walls. A faint chant gradually becoming discernible... what was it saying?
"Kiss... Kiss... Kiss him, kiss him... kiss him."
No!! Her eyes snapped open to meet his steely gaze, now reflecting her own mounting horror.
"Did you catch that?"
‘What did you hear?’
‘I asked first!’
"What are we, still at Hogwarts?"
"Yes, debate semantics faster; perhaps the approaching walls will politely pause for our petty squabble," he drawled scathingly.
"Fine, you absolute GARGOYLE. It's instructing me to kiss."
One refined eyebrow arched skeptically.
She glowered furiously. "It’s saying Kiss him. What charming directive are you receiving?"
"Kiss her."
"Oh."
"Indeed, oh. Fancy a snog, darling?"
"I'd rather gargle troll bogies."
"Suit yourself." His glare intensified as the walls inched closer, the kissing sounds amplifying to deafening levels, the posters now displaying increasingly graphic tongue exchanges as if orchestrated specifically to mortify them.
"Bloody buggering bollocks."
"Such refined vocabulary. Your future partner is truly blessed."
"Rich coming from you, Malfoy. We shared classrooms for six years. Your aristocratic facade slipped plenty when Potter bested you at Quidditch."
"Had I known you were eavesdropping with such dedicated attention, I'd have moderated my language to suit your delicate sensibilities." As he finished, the walls nudged them closer together. "You're wasting precious seconds, Lady Granger."
"I am categorically not playing tonsilitis with you," she declared, glancing at a particularly lurid poster before returning her gaze to his face.
"Terrified you might fancy it?" He suggestively waggled his perfectly shaped brows.
"You wish, Malfoy. I'll have you know—mmmph!" Without warning, Malfoy grasped her face between his elegant hands and pressed his lips firmly against hers in one swift motion, then pulled back, hands still cradling her cheeks.
"Wha—"
"Shhhh," he hushed, looking over her shoulder at the still-closing walls. "Didn’t work. Needs to be meaningful, apparently." He turned away, thoughtfully touching his lower lip with his thumb and forefinger.
The sheer horror of it; a "meaningful" kiss with none other than Draco sodding Malfoy? Would he even stomach such intimate contact? She suddenly realized she was baffled by his apparent nonchalance regarding the prospect. Isn't this precisely what his pureblood upbringing warned against? Tainting himself with muggle-born contamination?
"Clock's ticking, Granger," Malfoy remarked, stepping backward while surveying their shrinking prison. The "kiss him" chant had evolved into a full musical production worthy of the West End.
"You're utterly insufferable, do you know that?"
"Indeed, Your Majesty. I've been informed on numerous occasions. But if you possess even the faintest notion of how to escape this predicament, by all means enlighten me or forever use your smackers to get it over and done with!’ He raked long fingers through his platinum strands, leaving them artfully disheveled.
"How are you so blasé about this? There will be... fluid exchange," she shivered visibly.
"Well, color me gobsmacked!! The Gryffindor Swot Queen is, indeed, a prude. It's merely a kiss, for Salazar's sake."
Her scowl deepened to unprecedented levels. The absolute cheek! She, a prude? She'd kissed boys; had that awkward fumbling night with Ron where jumpers were discarded. She'd even snogged Viktor Krum in fourth year, thank you very much! Swot she might proudly be, but prudish? Absolutely not.
"Fine. Come here," she commanded, waving him over imperiously while closing her eyes in defeat, chin dropping to her chest.
"I'm positively overwhelmed by such seductive invitation. Clearly your middle name is Temptress."
"Are we doing this or not?" Her eyes snapped open, fists clenched tightly, scowl firmly reinstated.
"Trembling with anticipation," he responded dryly, closing the distance between them and glaring down from his significant height advantage.
Right, she could manage this. It was merely a kiss: simple pressure between two muscular structures. Muscles that happened to appear remarkably soft and perfectly shaped with a defined Cupid's bow. Had his lips always looked so inviting? Did he use some magical balm to achieve that perfect texture?
"Growing cobwebs here, Granger."
"You're quite tall."
"Such flattery will turn my head," he smirked.
"No, you absolute muppet, I mean... bugger it all, Malfoy, your lips are up there and I’m down here!" She stamped her foot petulantly.
"Allow me," he said, bending down and hoisting her up by the armpits like an overgrown ragdoll, pressing her against his firm chest with her feet dangling ridiculously, her face now inches below his. ‘There.’
"Brilliant, feeling positively irresistible, dangling like a toddler awaiting a nappy change."
"Irresistible?" He barked another laugh, enveloping her in another intoxicating wave of his cologne. "I'm uncertain what romantic fantasy you're entertaining, Granger, but this is merely a kiss. People snog constantly. If you’d prefer to be in a body bind when I pick you up, all you need to do is ask!"
She smacked the back of his head with her free hand. "I'm not your blasted plaything, you buffoon!"
"Try that again, and I'll toss you faster than Weasley fumbling the Quaffle." His eyes narrowed dangerously, a small crease forming between his brows, and Hermione found herself momentarily transfixed by those fathomless pools of mercurial grey, flecked with cerulean around the irises. His thick dark lashes, starkly contrasting with platinum hair, framed his eyes like expertly applied kohl, complemented by surprisingly dark eyebrows. The aristocratic nose, the full lips. The combined effect created an uncanny resemblance to that American Muggle actor; Jensen something.
"Appreciating the view, are we?"
"Did you know grey eyes constitute less than one percent of the global population, making them statistically rarer than green?"
He regarded her skeptically. "Is this your attempt at flirtation? Because truthfully, even ancient Filch possesses smoother romantic techniques."
"I don't flirt with trolls."
"Ah yes, childish insults; precisely what this delightful evening lacked."
"I cannot perform under these conditions, suspended like washing on a clothesline."
"You are meant to place your arms around my neck, you ridiculous hobbit!" he snapped impatiently.
Well, blow me down! The ferret occasionally spoke sense. She sniffed haughtily and cautiously positioned her hands on his shoulders, refusing him the satisfaction of complete compliance. There, not entirely ghastly, rather broad shoulders actually, impressively firm beneath her fingers. He must perform regular physical training judging by those defined muscles straining against finely tailored shirtsleeves. Hold on! When did he remove his jacket?
"Well?" Malfoy prompted tersely.
"I suppose we simply... initiate contact now."
“Are you single?”
"Why on earth would you ask that now?"
"I'm concerned I'll need to fend off besotted admirers after experiencing your captivating conversational foreplay. Absolutely spellbinding, this establishment of parameters."
If her miserable existence weren't literally being compressed by those encroaching walls, she would have head-butted him squarely in his perfectly proportioned nose, consequences be damned. What precisely did he expect? Breathless swooning merely because of forced proximity and extenuating circumstances?
Begrudgingly, she muttered, "Right, here goes..." She squeezed her eyes shut and puckered her lips dramatically, awaiting his move. After several seconds without contact, she cautiously opened one eye to discover him looking at her with deadpan disappointment.
‘What now?!’
"Please confirm this isn't your first kiss."
"Of course it bloody isn't!" she spluttered indignantly.
"Then kindly explain whatever facial contortion you're attempting."
"Fine! If you're such an expert, you bloody well do it! Why must I do everything?"
“I am lacking motivation.”
"Motivation?" she shrieked incredulously. "We're about to be bulldozered into human parchment, and you're pontificating about motivation? Wake up and smell the Mandrakes, Malfoy! This isn't some romantic fantasy!"
"Firstly, I haven't the foggiest what 'bull-dor-whats-it' means, and secondly, believe it or not, I'm disinclined to kiss someone whose idea of passion resembles a flobberworm awaiting feeding time."
"Put me down this instant."
"Absolutely not."
"Put. Me. Down. Now." She wriggled frantically against his hold.
"Not happening."
With unexpected grace, he adjusted her position, lifting her higher by the waist and deftly positioning her legs around his hips, redistributing her weight by placing his hands beneath her buttocks so their torsos lightly touched rather than crush together. Her arms instinctively encircled his neck, bringing their faces level.
"Better?" he inquired softly.
Hermione flushed crimson at where his hands were currently placed, literally cradling her arse. She did not want to think what ideas were running through his head now; scrawny, bony or pert? Heavy or deceptively firm? A tragic disappointment or the best surprise of his life?
She cleared her throat. “It's rather like a koala hugging a tree.’
Without warning, Malfoy released his supportive grip, and she tightened her embrace frantically with a startled gasp.
"You absolute wanker! I could have cracked my skull!"
"That would undoubtedly have been today's singular highlight, Granger!"
"Hold me properly, you inconsiderate git!"
He repositioned one arm beneath her posterior while the other supported her back, and she found herself involuntarily relaxing against his surprisingly sturdy frame.
Apparently sensing escalating tension, the sentient room transitioned to a soft, romantic melody that would make Celestina Warbeck weep with envy. Hermione silently cursed her abysmal luck for being coerced into this situation. While she prided herself on intellectual open-mindedness, this scenario, a melodious enchanted chamber compelling her to snog someone with whom she shared a history more thorny than Devil's Snare, surely represented rock bottom in her distinguished achievements over the last twenty-one years.
Draco, perhaps sensing her reluctance, began gently stroking her back with his palm, similar to calming an agitated Kneazle. Remarkably, her tensed muscles gradually surrendered, and she reciprocated by lightly drumming fingertips against his nape in rhythm with the music. Featherlight, teasing touches. His silken hair tickled her fingers, and she could not resist exploring higher, finding herself suddenly fascinated by its luxurious texture. Impossibly soft and rich between her fingers. Draco's eyes fluttered closed, evidently savoring the sensation, and he began subtly swaying them to the enchanting melody with barely perceptible movements.
She continued caressing his hair, allowing her own eyes to close while he traced delicate patterns across her back, now taking small, deliberate steps in a gentle dance to the bewitching music surrounding them. Holding him while he guided their impromptu waltz ignited something unexpected within her, prompting her fingers to travel from his scalp toward his ear, playfully teasing the sensitive lobe, leaning closer to inhale his intoxicating scent. He smelled positively divine at this proximity. Her nose grazed his chiseled cheekbone until her own cheek rested against his, and she found herself irresistibly compelled to press whisper-soft kisses against his impossibly smooth skin, drinking in his heady aroma. Her exploring fingers abandoned his ear to trace the sharp definition of his jawline, applying gentle pressure along its contours, feeling his throat constrict as he continued their languorous dance.
Her tentative kisses led inevitably to the corner of his mouth, where she surrendered to impulse with a delicate flick of her tongue against the sensitive crease.
"You're absolutely destroying me, witch," he breathed raggedly.
Emboldened by his unguarded confession, she opened her eyes to discover him watching through a heavy-lidded gaze. His stormy grey irises had darkened to smoldering charcoal. She cradled his jaw between her palms, thumbs gently caressing his chin, a small smile playing across her lips.
Here goes absolutely everything.
A gossamer-light brush of lips against lips, softness meeting firmness, the gentlest imaginable contact.
There, not remotely horrible. But then his hand pressed more insistently at her lower back while his nose delicately nuzzled against hers, head tilting at the perfect angle.
She pressed her mouth more purposefully against his, with deliberate firmness this time, and he parted his lips invitingly. She accepted the silent offering, tentatively tracing the outline with featherlight sweeps of her tongue, enticing him to deepen their connection. His hand abandoned her back to cradle her head, fingers tangling possessively in her wild curls after struggling to get through the ridiculous trinkets. He met her exploratory advances with confident parries of his own tongue, transforming their hesitant exchange into something more profound.
Hermione forgot everything, her surroundings, her identity, even the orchestral swell amplifying around them; entirely consumed by the sensation of his mouth claiming hers. His kiss was scorching, commanding, and devastatingly self-assured. Her coherent thoughts splintered as he gently captured her lower lip between his teeth, leaving her dizzy and utterly compliant to his expertise.
Her fingers instinctively tightened their grip, caught between conflicting impulses, drawing him impossibly closer or pushing away before surrendering the last vestiges of her dignity. Soft, involuntary sounds escaped her throat, but potential mortification dissolved beneath the overwhelming evidence of his equally fervent response.
What began as tentative exploration had metamorphosed into an unrestrained battle for dominance, and Hermione comprehended with startling clarity the true meaning behind the crude phrase "eating face", much to her horror and, more disturbingly, her unmistakable pleasure. Nothing remotely delicate remained; only heat, occasional teeth, and a desperate hunger made her toes curl in her sensible shoes. She scarcely registered how enthusiastically she matched his intensity, fingers hopelessly entangled in his silken locks as though staking permanent claim.
Nature eventually demanded oxygen, forcing them apart with synchronized gasps, foreheads nearly colliding in their dazed disengagement. Hermione inhaled desperately like a drowning victim breaking the surface, lips tingling pleasantly, cognitive functions thoroughly scrambled.
She attempted to formulate something cutting, something devastating, but produced only an embarrassingly breathy sound that visibly amplified his self-satisfied smirk. His ragged breath caressed her flushed cheek, and she despised, truly loathed, how her treacherous body unconsciously inclined toward him as though magnetically compelled.
"CONGRATULATIONS!" A booming announcement shattered the moment, startling them both as glittering confetti cascaded from every corner. Animated teddy bears clutching heart-shaped pillows materialized around them, applauding enthusiastically while bouncing merrily against Draco's ankles.
"You have successfully completed the Enchanted Valentine Labyrinth with a PERFECT SCORE of 100% on our Kiss-o-meter!" the disembodied voice pronounced triumphantly. Before either could properly process this utterly ridiculous proclamation, the door before them, indeed the entire wall, shimmered like liquid quicksilver before dissolving completely.
What awaited beyond was infinitely worse than any cursed corridor or magical trap they'd encountered within. A substantial crowd had gathered, all hooting, whistling, and applauding as though witnessing the Quidditch World Cup finale.
Faces blurred together; strangers, mercifully all strangers, a sea of unfamiliar wizards and witches laughing and celebrating their profound humiliation. Until, sweet Circe save her, Hermione's stomach plummeted as her gaze locked onto the only two familiar faces among the spectators.
Ginny and Blaise occupied prime viewing positions, fingers intertwined with that effortless intimacy exclusive to genuinely besotted couples. Ginny's expression suggested that Christmas, her birthday, and a Holyhead Harpies championship had coincided, her eyes dancing with unholy mischief. Blaise, ever the embodiment of aristocratic nonchalance, offered a deliberately slow, knowing smirk that made Hermione contemplate spontaneous self-transfiguration into something suitably insignificant, like a woodlouse.
"Took you long enough," Ginny called, voice dripping with delighted wickedness.
Blaise performed an excruciatingly measured applause. "Exemplary technique," he drawled appreciatively. "Though I'd argue the true achievement lies in Hermione’s decadent approach to the art of snogging, and what was it? 'Grey eyes constitute less than one percent of the global population' really? Nothing says 'ravish me' quite like statistical analysis, eh mate?"
Hermione’s soul left her body as she turned to observe Malfoy, who appeared remarkably unfazed by their predicament, betrayed only by the subtle twitch pulsing along his jawline.
"Perhaps consider releasing your death grip," he suggested quietly.
Mortification flooding her veins, she unclasped her legs from his waist; eliciting disappointed jeers from their unwanted audience as he lowered her with unexpected gentleness, steadying her when her wobbly knees finally reconnected with solid ground.
"Your attire," he coughed discreetly.
Glancing downward, crimson humiliation blazed across her cheeks upon discovering her blouse had ridden up significantly during their... enthusiasm, exposing a considerable expanse of bare midriff. Hissing several creative expletives that would make a Knockturn Alley hag cover her ears, she yanked the fabric downward. She marched toward her grinning friend, murderous intent radiating from every pore.
"You saw everything?" She glowered at the redhead.
"Every glorious moment; audio included," Ginny beamed unrepentantly. "Remarkably smooth, Hermione. Who knew?" She dissolved into uncontrollable giggles.
Hermione buried her face within trembling hands, releasing a prolonged groan of absolute despair. This moment would haunt her eternally. For Zabini to have witnessed this catastrophic display of temporary insanity is unforgivable. Merlin's saggy balls, how would she ever face him across Ministry functions again? The entirety of Wizarding Britain would undoubtedly receive detailed accounts of how the Golden Girl, Order of Merlin First Class recipient, distinguished Ministry official, thoroughly lost her mind in a tacky Valentine's attraction. Oh, and they heard the conversation.. she will remain single forever.
She mentally composed her imminent revenge: first, Obliviate Zabini into believing he spent the afternoon cataloguing flobberworm specimens; second, murder Ginny with meticulously planned deniability; finally, relocate permanently to Peru, where no one would ever find or know of her.
However, as her murderous gaze inadvertently connected with Malfoy's across the crowded carnival path, she encountered something entirely unexpected: a deliberate wink accompanied by that infuriatingly attractive smirk that suddenly seemed less irritating than before.
She watched, transfixed, as he casually disentangled himself from the congratulatory pats of nearby strangers and strolled toward her with casual elegance that should have been outlawed. Leaning in close enough that his breath warmed her ear, sending a most unwelcome shiver down her spine, he whispered words meant only for her.
"You know, Granger, for someone who claimed to prefer gargling troll bogies, you demonstrated remarkable... enthusiasm."
"Survival instinct," she muttered, willing the blush creeping up her neck to retreat. "Nothing more."
"Is that so?" His tone dripped with skepticism. "In that case, perhaps we should revisit that duel I promised you. Tomorrow night, seven o'clock, La Sorcière in Diagon Alley. Bring your wand and your appetite."
The rational part of her brain screamed to decline politely, preferably by hexing him into the next century. Yet before she could engage her better judgment, she heard herself respond:
"Bold of you to assume I'd give you the chance to redeem yourself, Malfoy."
"Oh, I think we both know who needs the redemption after that performance," he replied, eyes glinting with challenge.
As he sauntered away, looking unfairly composed for someone who'd just engaged in public spectacle, Ginny approached her with a glint in her eyes.
"Date planning?" she asked innocently, though the mischievous twinkle in her eye suggested there was nothing innocent about her machinations.
"Planning his funeral, actually," Hermione muttered darkly. "Followed immediately by yours. I'm thinking something with experimental potions; untraceable, of course."
"Oh please," Ginny scoffed, flipping her hair dramatically. "You should be thanking us. That was the most action you've seen since Viktor Krum tried to pronounce your name correctly."
Hermione's jaw dropped in outrage. "I'll have you know—"
“That you'll be wearing that blue dress tomorrow night? Excellent choice." Ginny linked her arm through Hermione's. "The one with the neckline that made Ron walk into a wall at Christmas."
"I loathe you with the fire of a thousand Incendios."
"Love you too, darling." Ginny patted her arm sympathetically. "Now, about your hair..."
Hermione revised her plans. Obliviate Zabini: postponed. Murder Ginny: upgraded to top priority. Peruvian exile: temporarily suspended.
But as she followed her insufferable matchmaker of a friend through the carnival crowds, she found herself absently touching her lips, which still tingled with the memory of platinum hair between her fingers and the taste of something dangerously close to anticipation. La Sorcière at seven o'clock... Perhaps she'd wear that blue dress after all.
