Chapter 20
I was not an idiot.
I noticed.
Draco Malfoy had been watching me.
It began gradually—his gaze lingering when he thought I wasn’t paying attention, his lips twitching in amusement whenever I did something that irritated or surprised him. However, it evolved into something more. He noticed things about me that no one else did. He was always present, whether in the library, the potion lab, or at the breakfast table, making a dry remark about my tea.
At first, I told myself I was imagining things. I was seeing exactly what I wanted to see. Because believing otherwise—believing that he could feel something—was dangerous.
Draco was not like other people. He was careful and measured. He desired control over his own life, his own decisions. He wanted to be recognized for who he was, not what others expected him to be. I understood that. More than anyone else, I understood what it meant to fight for your place in a world that had already determined who you should be.
So I convinced myself that his glances meant nothing. That his presence was coincidental. That the way his voice softened when he said my name, the way he hovered just close enough to brush against me, the way he let me see parts of himself no one else saw—that none of it meant what I wanted it to mean.
If I allowed myself to believe it…
Then I’d have to decide whether to push or reach for something I wasn’t sure I could handle.
And if I was mistaken—if I misread the signs or forced something that wasn’t meant to be—I could lose everything.
I could lose Solara.
And I wasn’t sure I had the strength to take that risk.
But even so, when I caught his eyes across the room, when his gaze flickered to my lips, when he looked away too quickly, as if he had been caught thinking something he shouldn’t—
I hoped.
I hoped that he was starting to feel something for me. That maybe when I carried out the next part of my plan, he would be fine with it. I’d already convinced myself that I was fine with it.
But what’s the problem with Draco Malfoy?
He needed a push.
He was not going to act on it. At least not yet. He was stubborn, arrogant, and infuriatingly cautious about admitting things, especially to himself.
So if he wasn’t going to do anything about it, I would.
I had read about it in Bewitching Witch, a glossy, borderline scandalous magazine I had acquired under the guise of research. The article had promised foolproof methods for appealing to a man’s most primal desires, the kind he would never recognize as calculated until it was too late. It had suggested that lust comes before love because desire can sometimes lead to something deeper.
Which is why, on a perfectly ordinary afternoon, I found myself standing in front of a Muggle lingerie store, staring at the window display as if it were about to attack me.
Witches, it appeared, did not bother with lingerie. They had their robes, skirts, and proper attire—sometimes form-fitting, but never frivolous like lace or silk meant only for private viewing. In all my years of exploring wizarding shops, I had never come across a lingerie store. It was simply not a thing.
Witches, of course, used their own methods. They didn’t need lingerie because they had potions—subtle, intoxicating draughts brewed to make a person smell irresistible, soften their skin, and make their presence more magnetic. There were enchantments that made lips appear fuller, eyes brighter, and voices more appealing. Spells that moved through the air like whispers, instilling ideas in the minds of those they wished to capture.
What about Draco? He would see straight through it.
Even if he didn’t realize the tricks, I was confident his stubborn, calculating mind would detect something was wrong. He was too perceptive, too sensitive to manipulation, and the last thing I wanted was for him to believe I was attempting to control him. That was not the point. I didn’t want to change his mind; I wanted to open the door and let him walk through on his own.
That’s when the Muggle world became my greatest asset.
Draco spent his entire life avoiding it. He had no context for Muggle seduction, and no ingrained suspicion of the things they used to entice one another. He was familiar with potions, spells, and enchantments—but silk on bare skin? Lace in the proper places? That was not something he would immediately recognize as a trick.
I’d fought in a war. I had stared down the Death Eaters. I had confronted the darkest magic known to wizardkind.
Nonetheless, the prospect of walking into a shop full of lace and silk made my palms sweat.
Ridiculous.
Yet… not.
Because, while this was about pushing him, there was another truth that I didn’t want to admit to myself.
I wanted him to want me.
Not simply as an ally. Not just as a convenient partner in this strange, uncertain relationship that had developed between us. I wanted him to look at me with his sharp, unreadable intensity and feel something genuine. I wanted his careful control to slip for a brief moment.
And, just maybe, I wanted to know how it felt to be desired.
I swallowed hard, my gaze shifting to the mannequins in the window display. They were dressed in things I never imagined myself wearing: delicate lace, sheer fabrics, and satin ribbons tied into neat little bows. It was impractical, frivolous, and completely unlike me.
Nonetheless, the thought of him seeing me in something like that sent a slow, unfamiliar warmth curling through my stomach.
I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and walked in, head held high, determined not to embarrass myself.
The store was dimly lit, with soft music playing in the background and shelves stocked with delicate fabrics in crimson, black, ivory, and pale pink. The air smelled of vanilla and something floral, and for a moment, I hesitated, feeling ridiculous for even being here.
What was I actually looking for?
Something that would attract Malfoy’s attention.
Merlin, what am I doing?
I wandered aimlessly, touching soft lace and silk, running my fingers over satin ribbons and intricate embroidery, feeling completely out of my element. Did anyone actually wear these things? Or was it simply for the sake of—
“Are you looking for something specific?”
I was startled by the voice and spun around to see a woman standing behind the counter, smiling politely.
“I—” I cleared my throat. “I need something… nice.”
Her smile widened. “For someone special?”
I swallowed. “Something like that.”
Her gaze swept over me, assessing, before she nodded knowingly. “Something classic or something that makes a statement?”
I paused.
Malfoy was not the typical type.
He had sharp lines, playful smirks, and slow, measured attention.
He was watching when he thought I wasn’t looking.
I wanted him to notice.
“Statement,” I replied, surprising even myself.
The woman grinned. “I think I have just the thing.”
I left the store feeling mortified.
But also slightly victorious.
The bag in my hand felt heavier than it should, as if it were the result of an absurdly reckless decision.
Still.
Malfoy required a push.
And I was planning to give him one.
I waited for the perfect opportunity.
I assumed there were rules for these things. I couldn’t simply walk into the library half-dressed in silk and lace. No—this needed to be subtle. Something he would notice without realizing he was supposed to see it.
A teaser.
An opening.
A push.
The next night, I set the stage.
I made sure I arrived in the library before he did. I carefully arranged my books to make it appear like a normal night of research.
Then I changed out of my regular clothes to wear what I had purchased.
It wasn’t particularly scandalous. I wasn’t as bold.
But the deep emerald silk slip, worn with an off-the-shoulder robe, was undeniably different from my usual nightgown. The fabric slithered over my skin like a whisper, cool and sinfully smooth, hugging my curves in an indulgent yet dangerous way. It was not obscene, but it was suggestive. The neckline dipped lower than I was used to, the hemline was just short enough to tease, and when I moved, the silk clung in ways that left little room for imagination.
I sat in my chair, opened a book, and willed my heartbeat to slow.
Now I had to wait.
Draco reappeared twenty minutes later.
I didn’t look up immediately.
I continued reading, forcing myself to act as if nothing had changed, as if my heart wasn’t pounding against my ribs.
But I felt him stop in the doorway.
I counted the seconds in my head.
One.
Two.
Three—
“You look… different.”
I turned the page, keeping my tone as casual as possible. “Do I?”
Silence.
And then he moved.
Slow, deliberate steps as he approached, coming into view out of the corner of my eye. His gaze swept over me, lingering briefly on the silk draping over my legs before returning to my face.
His expression was carefully neutral, but I noticed it.
His throat bobbed.
His fingertips twitched slightly.
The way his lips parted indicated that he had something to say but didn’t know what.
I raised an eyebrow at him. “Are you going to stand there all night, Malfoy?”
His jaw twitched. “Just surprised you’re not in one of your usual oversized jumpers.”
I hummed, finally looking up at him completely. “It’s warm tonight.”
He scoffed, but I noticed his eyes flicker downward again.
Noticing.
I nearly smirked.
“You’re staring,” I commented lightly.
Draco huffed and shook his head. “You’re ridiculous, Granger.”
And yet—
He did not move.
Did not return to his book.
He did not look away.
Something inside her twisted: excitement, nerves, and triumph.
She slowly closed her book and set it aside, tilting her chin up as she considered him. His expression was unreadable, but his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
He waited for her to say something.
Waiting for her to push.
So she did.
Something inside her twisted: excitement, nerves, and triumph.
She slowly closed her book and set it aside, tilting her chin up as she considered him. His expression was unreadable, but his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
He waited for her to say something.
Waiting for her to push.
So she did.
“Malfoy,” she said, her voice soft and confident. “Are you going to kiss me, or are we going to pretend this isn’t happening?”
His breathing became still.
She had a fleeting thought that he might walk away. I expected him to scoff and dismiss it, pretending he didn’t want her as much as she wanted him.
Then—
The tension snapped.
He moved.
Fast.
Before she could take another breath, his fingers were on her jaw, tilting her head up, and his lips briefly touched hers before kissing her.
It wasn’t slow.
It wasn’t careful.
It was inevitable.
Her breath caught in her throat as the heat rushed through her. He wasn’t gentle, or soft. He kissed her as if he had waited weeks before giving in.
Her fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him closer, and that was all it took. He groaned softly into her mouth, his other hand finding her waist and gripping it tightly enough to make her dizzy.
Merlin was good at this.
She opened for him, let him deepen the kiss, and then melted into him as if she belonged. And it looked like she did. It felt as if they had been pondering this for so long that the universe had finally given up waiting for them to solve it.
His fingers brushed against the silk on her hip, making her shiver and gasp into his mouth. When he heard that small noise, something snapped inside of him.
Draco drew back just enough to drag his teeth across her lower lip, his breathing ragged.
“That’s what you wanted?” he inquired, his forehead nearly touching hers.
Hermione looked up at him, dazed, with swollen lips and uneven breathing.
Then she smirked.
“Well,” she said teasingly, “you weren’t exactly subtle either.”
Draco let out a quiet, breathless laugh while shaking his head. “You are—” he exhaled, clutching her waist as if unable to let go, “—the most infuriating woman alive.”
She hummed and moved her hands up his chest, fingers curling at the base of his throat. “And yet,” she whispered, leaning in just enough for their noses to meet, “you’re still holding me.”
His grip tightened.
His next words were a confession delivered in the silence between them.
His fingers traced a slow, lingering line down her spine before resting on her hip, as if memorizing her shape. His forehead pressed against hers, his breathing still uneven.
“I’m not letting go.”