Draco/Hermione (forced prox, first kiss)
His hand skims down the back of her dress, part of the dance, but she flinches even so. They’ve been at each other’s throats for weeks, testing boundaries and uncovering tender spots, poking mercilessly. His hand on her skin is a sure-fire way to set her off, something she deeply regrets revealing. But she’s not allowed to react this time, not while they’re turning in a slow, choreographed pattern across the dance floor.
“Don’t,” she hisses under her breath.
He scoffs but turns it into a smirk, and then a smile for the onlookers. “Sorry, darling,” he murmurs. “Are my hands cold?”
They’re warm. It makes it worse.
She grits her teeth and looks at the lapel of his suit, distracting herself from the way he hasn’t moved his hand. Except then he does, and it’s so much worse. The brush of his fingertips is feather-light, almost absent except that she knows it’s not. It’s designed perfectly to provoke her.
Her hand itches where she has it splayed over his shoulder, wanting to dig her nails in or, even more satisfactorily, slap him again. But they’re in the middle of a crowded room, dancing under the guise of being husband and wife.
Wives don’t slap their husbands, not in public. Not without being asked — something he’s done a time or two, further goading. Daring her. She broke once, got him so good her hand smarted and his cheek burned red, but never again. He’d smiled like he’d won. Unacceptable.
But despite her newfound, highly- tested self-restraint, her hand itches.
He tuts lightly, knowing it even as his eyes stay level over her head, turning them in a slow rotation before side-stepping left. She has no choice but to follow his lead, like always.
The dance ends, but rather than drop his hand and step back, he slides it up. Cups the back of her neck. She inhales sharply, eyes flicking to his with a surge of instinctive panic. He could tighten his grip and control her, hurt her.
He does something even worse and dips his face to hers.
“Don’t you dare,” she rushes out, terrified and furious. It’s a line they haven’t crossed, but it’s a move that would absolutely break her where she’s most vulnerable.
“Why not?” he murmurs, close enough she can feel the breath that formed the words.
There are a million reasons. Their wedding is a sham, for one. They hate each other, for two. But what she ends up saying is none of those million reasons.
“Kiss me only if you mean it.”
He pauses, and she lets herself feel a dash of relief. But then he hums a low sound from the back of his throat and slants his mouth over hers.
There’s no applause, no gasps or tittering. The crowd only sees what they’ve been showing them all along.
And finally she sees it too.