Chapter 6
I'll go in and be quiet — I was and I'm not.
He stood with a well-trained posture from childhood and looked at one point.
This dot was a small, barely noticeable scratch on the wooden surface of the door. She separated the midnight stillness of Slytherin's living room from the loneliness of his bedroom. Her and Blaze's bedrooms. Although Draco was sure that his friend would never trade a hot night with a girl after a party for their damp, boring haven with ironed sheets smelling of detergent.
There were two options left.
She's there. Or not there anymore.
Is Granger asleep?
Or not?
Malfoy had only left two hours ago, but it felt like a fucking eternity. And somewhere, the subconscious fear driving him pushed him to figure it out as soon as possible and return. And, standing in front of the door, tightly gripping the metal handle, Draco, holding his breath, froze, absorbed in introspection. Who, as usual, came at the wrong time.
Fear of what drove him here?
That someone would find a mudblood in his bed, or that he wouldn't see her when he returned?
He pushed the door open, along with annoying thoughts about the color green, which reminded him that a Slytherin, and even more so a Malfoy heir, should not think about such nonsense. These thoughts were so contradictory and incomprehensible that they were infuriating.
Granger is in the same place.
Draco exhaled briefly and ran his gaze over her figure. Looking at the clenched fists on the plaid, in which the girl wanted to hide with all her might and hide from the bone-chilling dampness of the dungeons. She was looking for warmth. And, crumpling the plaid under her, she covered her head with the other end. So… so far, the legs remained bare, although tucked almost into the fetal position.
How did she not wake up from the fact that she was freezing?
Unbuttoning his cloak and pulling it off, Malfoy crept closer.
The way to unwrap Hermione and hide her in a normal way was now equated to the most difficult puzzle. Draco, sitting on the edge of the bed, tried with the attention of a true hunter to pull the plaid off his shoulders and straighten it under her. She would feel warmer. And it's more convenient.
His plans were disrupted by Granger. She released the fabric from her clenched fingers, as Malfoy had planned, but instead of a plaid… she clutched at his shirt, pulling. Forcing him to practically lie on top of her.
He bit his tongue.
His palm crumpled the snow-white blanket on which the girl's curls were scattered.
He held back all the sounds or swear words that were tearing at him.
She's still asleep. And somewhere in her half-sleep, she dreams of something interesting in the most erotic sense in which this word is even possible to use, because after the first unsuccessful attempt, when Hermione kissed him on the nose, the second comes…
A better attempt. It turns into a hot but terribly consumerist attitude towards his lips. Hermione digs into them so selflessly that he gets lost at first. And somewhere in this very second of Malfoy's confusion, Granger uses his tongue. She runs it over his lips. It glides over the gums. His second of confusion ends as soon as he touches her tongue with his own, and finally dissipates when Malfoy himself, fiercely responding, enters her game.
Somewhere on the fine line, a thought is beating.
He's fluttering a little.
Knock, knock. Knock.
Like a bird in a cage. This thought seems terribly important. But Draco can't think clearly when the only thing touching his exposed nerves right now is his lips. Such… acquaintances and at the same time — no.
He feels with his fingers how cold her skin is. It's like ice. Malfoy calms down, realizing that the trembling caused by the temperature of the dungeon is receding. That Granger warmed up, inflaming not only her pulse to a frenzied rhythm.
He almost rolls his eyes when the teasing game turns into a serious seduction. When because of her fragile fingers the penis is straining. Desire becomes so tangible that trousers already seem superfluous. All the clothes are superfluous. He moans when Granger bites his lower lip. He sucks enthusiastically, asking for forgiveness, but still not knowing why.
For the bite or her words mixed with a moan:
«Closer… Ron, closer.»
Knock.
The turbidity dissipates. Draco scratches the edge of the mattress with his palm in frustration, finally realizing what kind of thought was beating in the cage and did not give rest.
Hermione falls asleep and, looking for warmth, continues the almost weightless caress.
Her cheek rubs against his tense shoulder.
«Oh fuck,» Malfoy hisses, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Cursing the hair that scattered across his pillow as the girl in his arms lowered her head in a dozen.
Malfoy inhales chamomile for the last time, which seems to soak into his bedclothes overnight. He pulls away. And, not finding a better solution, covering her with his cloak, he goes into the shower. And then sleep. And only sleep. On the second, only empty bed in this room.
***
She had hated morning frosts since childhood.
This enveloping cold, capable of covering everything with an icy crust, evoked not the most pleasant childhood memories. Once again, Hermione flexed her numb fingers. And, with unpleasant sensations, she unbuttoned the Slytherin cloak, which she had dragged away with her in a hurry, and snorted. She folded it on a chair and thought, frozen in front of the mirror.
Was replaying yesterday's events in my head.
When, after running around the Gryffindor living room, she jumped out without a robe and headed to the library. McLaggen. Duels. An overheard conversation. Malfoy.
Did he put her to sleep? Or is she herself?
Hermione remembers waking up in an empty room. It was so cold. She remembers that, jumping up, she looked around and again wrapped herself in a plaid that smelled of Lemongrass. She thought it was a dream at the time. A dream inspired by the fear of an approaching war.
Students were already waking up outside the door.
And Hermione, standing in front of the mirror, began to unbutton her wrinkled shirt. Button by button, which literally a day ago fastened in front of the same mirror with filigree concentration. The shirt was completely open. She ran her finger over the beige lace of her bra, which had been in the way all night and prevented her from focusing on the soft plaid touching her skin.
This utterly absurd situation, where she spent last night, left a reminder of herself in the form of a wrinkled shape and circles under her eyes.
The shirt slipped over his shoulders and fell to his feet.
A couple of bruises from training on his shoulders. Pale skin, as if she hadn't spent the summer with her parents, sunbathing in the backyard of their house.
Grabbing an elastic band from the bedside table, she gathered her hair.
She's, Hermione Granger.
Observing herself in the mirror, a young girl does not see the posture or subtle features that are inherent in aristocrats. Does she need them? Perhaps you should stretch your shoulders more often, which are constantly tense from constantly sticking in a book.
The girl straightened up, running her fingers over her collarbone.
Her sleepy face and wrinkled facial features were discouraged. Hermione frowned at them, looking for a solution to become more beautiful.
Today…
An interesting day.
Extremely.
«Happy birthday!» shouted Ginny, who abruptly stumbled into the room.
«Good morning,» the corners of her lips lifted in a smile when Granger noticed how Weasley quickly slammed the door, realizing the state she was in.
Ginny jumped up to her and handed her the box.
«This is for you.»
«You shouldn't have, Ginny, I…»
«Open up, open up.»
Hermione concentrated on unpacking her gift, which was shoved into her hands, and she did it so seriously that Ginny laughed and said that it was not from a joke shop and she definitely should like it.
Well… she already likes the fact that it's not from a joke shop.
«Well?» the Weasley freezes in anticipation, while Hermione turns a tube of lip gloss with its characteristic name printed in pink letters kiss love in her hands.
«Kiss love, really?» said Hermione skeptically.
«That you look at him as an enemy,» the girl laughed, straightening her red hair in front of the mirror. «It's strawberry and… Muggle. You'll like it, try it!»
Wondering which of the two arguments Ginny had given her should like better, she opened the lid of the tube and sniffed.
A surrogate strawberry flavor, nothing like the real one.
«Well!» her friend was inspired when she carefully applied this sticky mass to her lips. She thought about it and immediately added. «There's still something to do with your bruises, you must have been reading all night again.»
Hermione nodded weakly and went to the closet for a new shirt, while Ginny, mumbling thoughtfully, went to her room for some miracle remedy that could help.
Maybe.
The fingers, which had already more or less moved away from the icy haze, were buttoning the buttons again clearly and quickly, according to their habit. The gloss on her lips looked… foreign. Perhaps, under the even tone of her face, he would beautifully emphasize her lips, although Hermione was not an expert, she still did not like all this.
But it was a gift.
Refuse? Late.
Not to use it? Hopefully, Ginny will forget about her gift in a week, if not three days. It was common for girls to give each other trinkets under the guise of attention and care.
The main gift, which, according to tradition, had been presented to her by her parents for the sixth year in a row, was now on the bookshelf. Out of habit, Granger will open it this evening and read the message of congratulations written in his parents' handwriting on the back cover.
Hermione held her breath in anticipation of the evening and wished that the day would fly by unnoticed. And so it turned out.
Ginny used her creams to remove all reminders of the night. She'd only updated her lip gloss three times all day, and that was at Weasley's insistence.
Does Brown put on lipstick every two hours?
It's a torment.
And, probably, in addition to the pleasant lines from her parents, she was pleased with only one moment all day.
He is also remembered most clearly.
They were leaving a lunch where Ron Weasley was staring at her face. He smiled, straightening a strand of her hair that had fallen out, and, not noticing that they were standing near the door to the great hall, blurted out:
«Hermione, you're very beautiful.»
What else could it be but the fulfillment of her wish?