Deals with Book Dragons
Fall
Fall gloomed onwards, rainy and gray. The streets soaked up puddles, and the smells of mulch and drowned grass lightened the air. The patter of a steady drizzle seemed to last weeks for Hermione, who relived each rainfall anew, as she splashed her way across the English countryside, answering (what seemed to be) more complaints about leprechaun gold than ever before.
Tuesday(s), Wednesday(s,), Thursday(s) and the better part of Friday(s) passed busily by, and Hermione was much occupied by the dangerous tomb, Eon, and researching the ways in which to incorporate the nexus spell so that the new Time-Turners could not only pull back time but also create a nexus—a pin-point in time in which all variants and parallels were no longer fixed. This could prove too morally dangerous. Fixed events in time helped prevent the paradoxes that might rip apart the universe. On the other hand, if the spell were adhered the way Hermione intended, time would fold instead of splinter, and paradoxes would echo like deja vu, remembered but truncated instead of spinning out into endless variants of the timeline.
She stayed late at the Ministry, as Ginny was out of town for a game and she’d rather spend the evening with Eon than sit about in their flat eating cold tuna and crackers. Theo had taken off—referencing some gala in Italy. Mr Threep had scurried home because his great aunt Isley was serving up leek and potato soup sharply at six. And if he were late, the Crup would get his side of cheese toasty.
Hermione departed at eight pm, and only because her stomach was beginning to whinge and gnaw to distraction. Picking up some butter chicken on the way home, Hermione stewed over her budget, already debating how many lunches she could make of the curry. At least four meals, if she added some tofu and potatoes—maybe stretched it thinner with Geminio?
Style
Draco wouldn’t have classified his actions as stalking. It was reconnaissance. And the object of his interest was a book—not the witch avoiding him. He had donated quite a lot of valuable time tracking her from the Ministry and Gringotts; and confoundedly enough, he’d had to resort to tailing the Weasley roommate to pin down their exact address.
Equally unwelcome, Draco discovered he couldn’t even make fun of Granger while he didn’t stalk her. He had always enjoyed looking down on other’s fashion senses. The golden trio made it so easy. What with their horrid homemade jumpers and bad hair. However, in cataloging Hermione’s many fashion faux pas, he found himself disturbingly intrigued.
Draco blamed this new development on her shoes.
He’d never been very partial towards sexy librarian types. Which was largely why he had never put Hermione Granger in the same category as female. During their Hogwarts years, she had been an androgynous creature of the library (a brain with an overabundance of hair)—he’d encountered hags with more sexual potential.
There was a blip of course. The night she had transformed at the Yule ball as though discovering she herself had a body before vanishing once more beneath thready jumpers with massive ugly H’s as though she were a charity case for poor crochet.
But the current Hermione was skirting even this disheveled category. She never wore glasses for one. So there was no hope of removing them for improvement. Her hair refused to be tamed into a bun—always coming loose in wild curly wisps. And her shoes were not nearly clunky, short, or shabby.
He had always imagined she’d grow into a spinster; now he found he had almost anticipated it, had been ready to make allowances for the deficit. He felt robbed of the opportunity to be gracious—should he have chosen to be so.
He’d braced himself, preparing for the initial hurdle of overcoming conservative footwear—really it was mostly the footwear—the stockings, pencil skirts, and unkempt hair had potential. Except she never wore ugly shoes. Nor did she dawn ugly, tan, or gray stalkings. She wore a Muggle thing called leggings—an obscene middle ground between stalkings and trousers. And her other garments were almost attractive, in a strange, Muggle, modern design.
He supposed he could mock her for being unprofessional. She hardly had the wardrobe of a respectable Ministry employee, but he also couldn’t say that she looked entirely unprofessional. To his great dismay, Draco admitted to himself by the end of the week that Granger actually might have a sense of style—even if it was an unorthodox sense.
In any case, these details were unimportant. Obviously, Granger had matured, just as Draco had—it wasn’t as though he slicked his hair back still. Unfortunately, this meant that by the end of the week, he knew what Hermione’s legs looked like in kitten heels, ankle boots, leather mules, and buckled chunky high heels—which was entirely too much to know about the witch.
Draco was ready to rid himself of the Muggle-born tonight. So naturally, after knocking at her door proved ineffective (and having no desire to stand about in the rain waiting for the witch to eventually make her way home) he broke into Granger’s flat.
Unraveling her wards, a sleeper stunning spell, and four alarm triggers had been embarrassingly easy; almost, Draco thought cheerfully, as easy as finding the poor hiding place where Hermione had stuffed the dark magic chest with its French rune book.
And what a nasty little surprise that was. Tucked beneath Granger’s crisply made bed sat a nasty curse circle. Oily magic trickled stealthily from a bent corner of the chest. Clearly, Hermione hadn’t glanced at the chest all week long. And it did not like being ignored.
He contemplated simply walking out with the treasure—but then he’d probably have Potter after him about it. And he found himself (perhaps overeagerly) anticipating the look of outrage upon Hermione’s pert face once she found him cozily ensconced in her sitting room.
He made himself a cuppa (she had some of the most over-flavored teas imaginable) and settled into her cramped two-seater excuse for a couch that sat opposite an ugly Muggle box. Propping his feet up on the chest—which seemed to mutter darkly at him—Draco set in to wait.
Unfortunately, that’s about when he noticed he was being watched. The ugliest muppet of a feline blinked cooley at him from Hermione’s bedroom door. Its buggy orange eyes seemed to float apart, one eye on him, another rolling too far left.
Draco narrowed his eyes at the cadaver of a feline. It wandered between Draco and the door—as if to keep him from absconding. And then it began to lick its bum hole. Disgusting.
Fortunately, Ginny had some marvelously horrid books stuffed under her bed to entertain. He flipped through them lazily, read the dirty bits, had a laugh, then resorted back to some Muggle book he’d copped off Hermione’s bedside table—Stardust. He became entirely engrossed, and a little cross when Hermione arrived home before he’d gotten to the end.
“Crooky!” Hermione was hollering before she’d even unlocked the door. She stomped in, arms full of soggy plastic bags that smelled delicious. For once, as if to spite him, her shoes were a normal pair of green, tall rain boots (she must have stuffed her indoor shoes into that odious, bottomless, purple bead bag). She was wearing brown leggings and an almost elegant, though shapeless, thick green jumper that reached past her knees. And her robes were tailored funnily so they resembled something between a cape and a trench coat—hm.
“Excellent! You brought dinner. I was just getting peckish,” he pretended disinterest and returned to his chapter.
Hermione’s gawking was more than satisfactory. She barely seemed to notice the muppet feline licking at the rain she’d brought home in puddles on the floor.
“By the by, Granger,” he commented into the book, “I hope you got enough for two. Geminio really waters down the flavor.”
“Excuse you?” Hermione glowered, scrambling for her wand.
Draco held up a hand. “Do you really want to attack me when I’m here on Potter’s orders? Or are you going to pretend you haven’t been avoiding talking about the rune book?” He tried to stay relaxed, lightly turning another page.
Hermione stomped out of her boots, glaring venomously, and he noticed she was rather rain-swept.
“Aren’t you a witch?” He asked, pointing at the water gathering around her feet. The muppet had lost interest in the puddles, flouncing its way to the coffee table, where it leaped up and stared a single baleful eye at Draco. The other eye roamed free.
Hermione was taking deep breaths.“It’s been a long day, Malfoy, and I’d like for you to leave.”
“Shan’t.” Draco wiggled down into the couch. “We have business to settle. And I’m far too starved for a duel, You look like a wet yeti—frankly terrifying.” Absently Draco shot a drying charm at her and turned another page.
Hermione jumped and looked herself over suspiciously, as if there had to be some reason Draco hadn’t yet cursed her. Frowning in confusion she pinched her lips and eyed the chest beneath his feet. He waited, curious to see what she’d do, half expecting her hair to hiss and thrash like a nest of snakes. But she marched into her quashed kitchen and set about slamming cupboards. Clearly, she was pretending he wasn’t there.
That wouldn’t do at all.
Draco set aside the book, Occluding the page he left off on, and followed to the bar, peering in at her.
“Oh, lovely, curry.”
“I’m not feeding you,” she snapped, waspish.
“Your pay must be bloody awful,” he leaned into the bar, shooing magazines and a fruit bowl out of the way of his elbows.
“I’m paid quite well!”
“And you live like this?” Draco wrinkled his nose.
“You seem to have made yourself quite comfortable.”
“It took some effort,” Draco sniffed.
Hermione scooped and slung the rice into her bowl with violence. Draco suppressed a grin.
“I didn’t know you were so interested in Ministry pay. Did Gringotts finally fire you?” Hermione asked and violently turned on the curry container.
Draco chuckled. “Hardly, those heartless goblins adore me. Something we have in common. Rosier seems to have made himself your lapdog. Though he clearly isn’t paying like he cares about you. Seems working for the Ministry isn’t half as respectable as it used to be. For all the work they have you doing? Any amount of money would be too small. And by the state of this apartment? Are you in need of charity, Granger?”
“Your soul needs charity,” Hermione rolled her eyes, stomping to the two steps of space available in the kitchen to put her kettle on. A strange tall Muggle kettle with required button pushing instead of flames.
Draco continued with a smirk, “I have a friend in accounting, and often lunch with your supervisors and general betters,” he drawled, “Need me to drop in a good word for you?”
“My jobs—job, pays just fine, thank you,” she huffed.
Draco’s eyes narrowed at her slip but he didn’t press. When did she have the time for another job? “Sure it does,” he said blithely, “you’d make more money volunteering in a library. At least then you wouldn’t be footing the bill for all the equipment you need traveling to these far-off places. The Marshes of Madness, Granger?” He shuddered, having stalked her there, he then left almost immediately upon stepping into a puddle of rolling eyeballs. “The Sleeping Sea?” That at least had been pretty—though he had not envied her the cold dip beneath the ice, so close to winter it had looked like she dove into slush. “How many shoes have you had to replace this month alone?” He speculated, having counted a different interesting pair each day. “I’d recommend you ditch your job entirely, become a treasure hunter, and sell artifacts in Diagon Alley, but knowing you you’ll just donate everything to a museum,” he sneered upon reflection.
“Museums are lovely, controversial, but lovely,” Granger agreed.
Draco scowled. She wasn’t nearly as worked up as she should be. If anything, she seemed to be calming down. Which made him nervous.
“Tea?” Hermione looked up expectantly.
Draco glanced about the flat suspiciously. Had the weaslette returned? Was he about to be Avada’d in the back? He shifted slightly to see more of the room, where was that terrifying muppet? The orange, yellow eyed mop was sitting on the book chest. Draco narrowed his eyes at the beast. It loafed up and closed its eyes dismissively.
“Have a seat, the couch won’t swallow you.” Hermione didn’t bother with a full tea service. Even if she brought out the bone china, Draco wouldn’t have been impressed. Vengeful creature that she was, he was certain Hermione picked the most outrageous mug she could find at the back of the cupboard.
It was a horrible Gryffindor crested thing, far too large, so his tea was sure to go cold, and smelling bitter.
Draco sniffed, “What, no sugar? Honey? No milk?”
“No Malfoy, remember? I’m far too poor to afford such luxuries,” Granger sniffed and returned to the kitchen for the plates. Draco took this opportunity to notice her tea was not so dark and disturbing a brew.
He wouldn’t drink it.
Then Hermione slid the plate of curry in front of him. She wouldn’t poison him, would she?
He settled back, Occluding his nerves and distress at the china, and decided to take up her challenge. If Granger wanted to play chicken, she wasn’t going to scare him away with this frightening hospitality.
No, Draco didn’t like this one bit.
Eat up Malfoy
Hermione sipped her tea, feeling warmth spread to the far reaches of her toes, and watched Malfoy cast detection spells over his mug and plate with vengeful amusement.
He wouldn’t find anything.
Not until he took a bite. She had thrown in a good amount of cayenne pepper to his curry, and she had over steeped his tea adding none of the lemon and sugar she had mixed into her own.
He sat primly, eyeing Crookshanks as if the cat might maul him, adjusting his robes, and then sort of . . . melted into place. Like a marshmallow on hot chocolate. He suddenly seemed entirely at home on her plush red couch. His green ring shimmered as he belatedly sipped the tea with Gryffindor’s obnoxious house crest.
Horrifyingly, Hermione had a sudden thought that he looked . . . sort of cute. It was of course just the juxtaposition of it all. How interesting Malfoy would look wearing a Gryffindor scarf, for example, she thought. And then, ugh, it was just because he was so attractive. These were distressing discoveries. Best buried away and never glanced at again.
This is Malfoy. Hermione reminded herself trying to recall the pointy faced looks of disdain he’d attacked her with. But then, he’d always been focused more on Harry. Making fun of her had just been a way to take a piss at the boy who’d shot down Malfoy’s (horrendously snobby and prejudiced) first overtures of friendship. Malfoy, Hermione reflected for the first time, was a terrible little grudge holder. (Sort of funny if it hadn’t all been so ugly.)
Then she recalled when Malfoy had seemed to lose interest in Harry altogether. After Cedric was murdered, Hermione thought. She really didn’t know anything about him after that. Only that, despite Harry almost murdering him in the bathroom, Malfoy hadn’t given him up to his parents when they’d been captured and she tortured by his mad aunt. Her neck ached at the memory where Bella had nicked Hermione with her horrible little knife. Silver scars on her throat twinged with the phantom pains of the Crucio curse.
Ugh, he was putting her off her completely delicious and edible curry.
Malfoy bravely sipped the tea. The bitter flavor only acknowledged by the quick flutter of his eyelids, and then he just clasped the steaming mug beneath his chin, absorbing the warmth.
He didn’t look at all ridiculous. Hermione had at least hoped for one good splutter and grimace. A one-off about her shoddy tea supplies. He denied the uncomfortable, not even the slightest bit unnerved as she had hoped.
Scowling Hermione began on her curry, the comforting creamy spicy meal ruined as Malfoy hummed and cleaned his plate alongside her—accented by only a few coughing fits and watering eyes.
He had a determined relaxed face, almost sleepy (as well he might having spent the evening reading her books!). His clothes didn’t even have a single wrinkle from all his lounging about.
Annoying.
Hermione didn’t like it one bit.
Deals with Book Dragons
Draco suffered in silence. He was not one for martyrdom usually. He’d be the first to complain of a lumpy mattress or rocky pillow. He couldn’t abide physical discomfort and would stop by Madam Pomfrey’s at Hogwarts to take care of even the slightest of blisters.
Which is not at all to say that he couldn’t handle pain or discomfort. He just felt himself to be owed a great deal of attention. That his discomforts should be noticed and sympathized over.
That of course was brutalized from his nature during the year of terror, when horrid aunt Bella treated every snide comment and failed Occlumency lesson with mind scratching Legilimency attacks—often until Draco passed out sobbing, his mind slippery and fractured. No, Draco had learned how to bear pain. Learned how to keep a stiff upper lip when his insides felt ready to melt into jelly as Nagini slithered down Malfoy halls when his bones felt brittle as collected dust as Voldemort’s skeletal hands brushed his shoulders. Occluding so heavily he felt empty and adrift in his own body.
No, suffering Hermione’s nasty tea and tasteless (but for an unholy amount of cayenne) curry. This was a game. A child’s game. And Draco loved games of supremacy dearly. It wasn’t as if he’d be getting pampered and sympathized over by Granger. So, having no hopes of coddling, Draco set out to vex the witch. To show her just how silly, useless, and tiresome her horrifying bout of hospitality was.
Mouth afire, Draco drained his now tepid bitter brew of tea, suppressing a wince (he had downed far more revolting potions, he could down a silly over steeped bit of tea.) And then he made his proposal.
“You should give me the book. And I shall send you my translations.”
“Denied,” Hermione replied primly.
Draco had expected this response. And merely settled himself more firmly into the couch. “Then I suppose I could just move myself in. Bit cramped, what with only one bathroom, Granger.”
Hermione’s mouth worked, “Move in?” she spluttered aghast.
“Well yes, I can’t just leave you with this dangerous text. Did you even realize it had begun laying out a demon summoning circle beneath your bed?”
(Hermione hadn’t but she’d take demon possession over admitting any such thing to Malfoy.)
“I imagine a few nights from now, you would have woken up to a nasty surprise,” Draco frowned wondering if he shouldn’t have just let the witch wake up with a demon sucking at her brains. She likely would have survived with Ginny a door over. And then maybe she would have handed the book over with some humility. Yes, he ought to have thought that through more.
Hermione sniffed, “I was aware, thank you.”
Draco hadn’t expected that. How displeasing.
Hermione continued stuffily, “As long as it was busy scraping away at that curse, it was too busy to come up with something new. Now, I suppose I’ll have to keep an eye out for something worse.” She pouted.
Draco glared aghast. She’d let the book continue on as though it could have done worse than set up a demon summing circle under her bed? And she was put out with him for curse breaking it? As though he were imposing himself terribly by protecting her from her own stubborn curiosity. Really? Who was the dark wizard? Malfoy wasn’t the one trying to translate an evil, demon summoning text—probably gifted to her by a dark wizard who hoped she’d kill herself off opening it.
“And you shall not be staying here,” Hermione said firmly.
“I think I shall. I’ve already talked it over with Potter.” (He hadn’t, of course, but he would if need be.) “He’s not thrilled to have a sentient evil magic book summoning darkness and despair a bedroom over from his girlfriend.” Draco smiled. Yes, that sounded like something Potter would whinge about.
Hermione looked alarmed at this.
“I shall move it somewhere else then,” she huffed.
Draco stood. “If you must be difficult about this, I’ll have Potter work it out with you. I prefer silk sheets, mind you, and do clear out a fair third of the bathroom counter for my toiletries.” This was all a marvelous bluff, of course. Draco could think of nothing more appalling than moving from his comfortable bedroom at Andromeda’s cozy home with little Teddy greeting him each morning to this drab, cramped, city dwelling. Not even extension charms could make the place comfortable for two—much less three—people.
“Where are you going?” Hermione looked alarmed.
“To get a little overnight bag.” Draco brushed orange fur from his trousers.
“Wait!” Hermione actually looked terrified. Her hair puffed with alarm.
For a brief moment, Draco felt a shudder of dread. It was in the pitch of her voice. The shrill, clamped, suffocated gasp brought him right back to the Malfoy dining hall and Granger’s desperate pleading screams.
He’d never liked Granger. She’d never given him anything but scorn and disgust. But he hadn’t enjoyed her torture. Hadn’t enjoyed that she’d never broken the way he did under Crucio.
That day Draco had learned there was an equal pain in watching someone suffer. His father’s suffering he had taken with quiet rage. But Hermione’s screams had made him realize just how little he wouldn’t pay to keep his mother from that pain as he stood fixed as stone, heart palpitating madly.
He had no illusions that his parents could stop Bella. His father wasn’t inclined to. His mother hadn’t even been able to save Draco from Bella’s torture—why should she risk anything for a Mudblood she didn’t know? And he? That thought had terrified him in place. He’d have to kill Bella to stop her. And then the Dark Lord would question their thin loyalty and end the Malfoy line entirely.
If Bella had been less mad, and less evil, she might have realized that breaking Hermione Granger was as simple as torturing her friends downstairs. But Draco hadn’t been about to advise his aunt’s lunacy. It had simply cemented his beliefs that Bella was not family, not a Malfoy. The Malfoy’s would do anything for family—but that thought never even occurred to Bella. Disgusting, that he had more in common with a Mudblood than his own aunt.
The ghastly way Hermione had twisted and shrieked as Bella screamed and threatened her with knife and spell had altered something in him. It took him a while to realize why his aunt didn’t just rip into the girl's mind to find the answers—she was too cowardly to use Legilimency on a Mudblood. Probably feared to have her own magic stolen by whatever mystical means Muggle wizards were said to steal magic.
It had been weakness. And Malfoys loved to exploit weaknesses.
It had been this moment that drove a fracture through all Draco’s beliefs of blood superiority. Hermione, such a terrible liar, the girl who loved to boast and answer questions, resisted Bella’s interrogation. His father’s beliefs cracked and fractured under the weakness of Aunt Bella’s groundless fear. And if it was all groundless, then what was his family suffering for?
Draco suppressed a shudder as he sent Granger a sharp glance over his shoulder. Resenting her for these memories. Resenting her for being born on the other side of the coin.
Taking several deep breaths Granger seemed to war with herself before staring at him with confused suspicion.
“Why are you trying so hard to help me?”
“So you admit I actually am trying to help?” He rolled his eyes.
“Maybe, but I can’t think of a single reason why, and until I know I can’t trust you with a dark spell book.” Hermione crossed her arms.
Draco stared, his face flushing with sudden anger. “Not one bloody reason, Granger?”
“Is this some misguided apology for all your bullying in school? Bullying me now?” She snapped.
“You need bullying you stupid bint!” Draco looked to the ceiling breathing harshly. No, he wasn’t doing all this because he was sorry about the way he’d treated her. This was . . . It was doing what was right. Like plonker Potter. He had seen a danger he could prevent and he was preventing harm. That’s what he did now. And it had nothing to do with the silly witch.
Granger’s eyes were wide and startled as if she had used Legilimens on him.
Feeling sour Draco glowered at the ugly Muggle box in the room, Occluding to sudden calm.
“Do you know why I decided to become a Curse Breaker, Granger? Because some things shouldn’t exist. And that book you want so badly to study? Have you thought about if it deserves to be translated at all?”
Hermione shifted uncomfortably, frowning at the chest as Crookshanks batted at a leaky bit of dark magic wafting off its corner.
“It’s a feeling.” She admitted, glancing at him and fussily stacking up their plates. “Maybe it’s stupid, but if we hadn’t researched dark magic we never . . . we never would have defeated Voldemort. Knowledge isn’t evil.” She finished quietly, fiddling with a spoon.
Draco snorted, “Maybe you aren’t completely mad. Except that you are throwing away the free help of a Curse Breaker. You don’t want to know how much I would charge for this sort of thing usually.”
Hermione grudgingly straightened. “We shall need to schedule a time to work,” she decided.
“Agreed. And I will be warding this book so you won’t be able to crack open the spine without me.”
She huffed her displeasure but settled towards him as if ready to do battle.
Now we were getting somewhere.
“How about Wednesday night?” Draco asked. Wednesday nights Andromeda left Teddy with one of his many godparents to do (what Draco supposed was) any number of fun activities—without Draco. Andromeda herself was in reality out late at her book club / Bridge circle those nights. So naturally Draco hated Wednesday because he was abandoned—why not add a Granger to the mix?
“Can’t, Wednesdays are scheduled for P.L.E.A.S.U.R.E.” Hermione responded distractedly.
Draco swallowed, his mouth cottony dry. “Salazar, Hermione. You need a whole night for that?”
It’s P.L.E.A.S.U.R.E not Pleasure, Malfoy, Honestly
Thinking through any gaps she might have in her busy life, Hermione had two planners open before her. She lifted her quill to ink him in . . . somewhere. She pursed her mouth. Malfoy would want a regular time slot to work on the text—and spotty moments here and there would get them nowhere with something so complex.
Then Hermione noticed that Malfoy had gone silent such a long time now that she gave him a look. He in turn was giving her a look, waiting for her to come back into focus.
His eyes were too bright as he asked in a rough voice, “You have a night scheduled for PLEASURE, do you? And have you penciled in each step of the process so it proceeds in a timely manner? That does sound very like you. How much allowance do you make for tardy gratification?”
To which Hermione rolled her eyes because it wasn’t the first time she’d heard this inquiry. “Theo named it. Puzzlers, Logic Enthusiasts, and Amateurs, Solving Unique Riddles and Enigmas.”
“Are you clarifying to help me understand that Theo attends your PLEASURE nights?” Draco asked sounding strangled with laughter.
“Oh shut up. It’s a whole group.”
Malfoy’s eyes flared wider, an evil smile touching his lips. “A group comes to PLEASURE night? Really? I knew Theo was adventurous but you always struck me as rather boring for a—”
Annoyed, Hermione activated her blurring charms, so even if Malfoy looked over her shoulder he wouldn’t be able to read any of her activities and whereabouts again.
“Keep your secrets then,” Malfoy snickered.
Hermione huffed, biting at her quill.
“And stop doing that.” He snatched the quill from her. “Have some pride even if you haven’t any self awareness, witch.”
Hermione glared, turning to face him, and found her nose bumped his chest. Malfoy froze, hands hovering above her head clasping her quill. Hermione jabbed his rib and he yelped backing up with a curse.
“If you must know, P.L.E.A.S.U.R.E. is one of the few nights I get a glass of wine and catch up with Minerva.”
“McGonagall comes to PLEASURE with you?” Draco clutched his side, tearing up with laughter.
Hermione found herself fighting a smile and drew her chin up severely. “Yes, Malfoy, as it so happens, many people enjoy relaxed socialization. Luna and Neville are also regulars.”
“And are you, regular?” Draco’s voice scraped up his throat.
“Seeing as I host the event—” Hermione snatched her quill back dismissively.
“Well?” Draco crossed his arms.
“Well?” Hermione glanced back.
“Aren’t you going to ask me?” Draco asked loftily.
Hermione stared in alarm. “You want an invitation to P.L.E.A.S.U.R.E.?” Hermione felt a little mad just asking.
“I never PLEASURE anyone without an invitation, Granger,” Draco drawled.
Hermione narrowed her eyes.
“Is that an invitation, Granger?” Malfoy condescended.
“It’s a closed group.” Hermione snapped and turned away flustered.
“You little liar,” he laughed.
“My group, my rules.” Hermione shoved her notes into piles.
“You have a lot of rules when it comes to PLEASURE, do you?” Malfoy asked sounding entirely too delighted.
Hermione paused. Were they . . . flirting? Draco blinked and his playful grin dropped off his smug face. Hermione’s unhappiness reflected in his eyes.
“So, Saturday morning?” She asked through her teeth.
“Ten o’clock, sharp.”
“We’ll meet . . .” She didn’t want to have Malfoy in her flat again.
“I’ll send an owl when I find a suitable study room,” he clipped.
“Fine.” Hermione’s quill almost ripped through the page marking him into her calenders.
“Fine.” Malfoy drawled and stalked out the door.
Flirting, with Malfoy? Hermione felt ill thinking of seeing Draco on the morrow out of choice.
No, she didn’t like this one bit.