[Image: Draco and Hermione lying on the floor head to head. "We're screwed."]
By the amazing Bellemedusa
Shite. Fuck. It wasn't supposed to end up this way.
Along with Blaise and Theo, Draco went to take a breather outside on the school grounds and a nip of firewhiskey from Blaise's flask. A warm, cozy feeling spread over his chest. The boys headed back inside. But he stalled, digging the heels of his Italian loafers on the gravel. His father would have a conniption.
He was trying to avoid Pansy's eager, roaming hands. She'd been overzealous ever since the beginning of the Ball when she noticed he was staring — mouth agape — at Hermione on Viktor's arm.
He could hardly be blamed. The frizzy-haired swot tamed down her mane and fixed her overbite. Any Wizard would notice.
Draco heard her first before he saw her. Next, he noticed that her light gold heels were hanging delicately from the crook of her fingers. Then he saw her face, screwed up and crying on the steps of the Front Hall Entrance.
"What's this here, Granger?" He stuffed his hands inside his black trousers, trying for aloof, but in truth, it was more so because he was nervous.
"Go away, Malfoy!" She wiped another tear from her ruddy cheek.
He tutted, "That's not very polite of you. I know even Mudbl—"
Hermione immediately stood up and slapped him, taking him right back to Third-Year. A flushed, burning face. A raging hard-on that lasted for days afterward.
She ran into the shadowy corridors, her periwinkle blue sash flowing behind her.
Almost of their own accord, his feet followed her.
Twisting and turning through the hallowed halls of Hogwarts, Draco lost her. He spun around helplessly.
Until he heard a loud snort inside an abandoned classroom. He followed the noise.
Hermione was inside, sitting on top of a desk, swiping away her fat tears with the back of her hand.
"Why are you following me?! I'm not in the mood." Her voice cracked.
He didn't answer, because he didn't know.
"Come now, Granger," he teased. "Whatever this is, it can't be that bad. Krum stepped on your toes? The Weasel didn't ask you to the dance or Scarhead didn't notice how pretty you look tonight?"
Her big, brown eyes shot up at him. "W-what?"
"So I'm right."
"No, what did you say?"
He rolled his eyes. "I said Potter didn't notice how good you look—" He finally heard it. He immediately shut his mouth.
They glared at one another.
Hermione wiped her cheek again. Without looking at him, she asked, "Where's your date?"
Draco shrugged. "Inside somewhere. I'm kinda avoiding her."
"Why?"
He stepped a little closer. "Pansy's a bit like a chihuahua. Too feisty and high-strung. Plus, those bulging eyes—"
She let out a small laugh.
He made Granger laugh.
Slowly, carefully, Draco climbed up onto the desk next to hers. She watched him with a skeptical look, arching a dark brow. He offered her his silk handkerchief. She stared at his outstretched arm as if it were an alien.
"What are you doing, Malfoy?"
"Just take it," he muttered.
"Why? Is it hexed? Is it going to turn my face purple the second I touch my face with it? Or maybe it's infused with itching powd—"
"For Merlin's sake!" Draco shoved the handkerchief into her hand.
For the first time ever, their skin touched without violence. Her hand was soft and warm. His was cool and lithe.
Their eyes met.
His body turned, knocking his knees into hers. He pulled her hand toward his chest and reached for her jaw, pressing her face and body to him as close as possible.
An uncoordinated flurry of legs crashing, lips mashing into one another, and teeth.
It was clumsy. Awkward.
The desks' legs screeched across the floor.
Hot pants of breaths.
In between a dizzying summit of wet, bungling, open-mouthed kisses: "Wait—"
"Shut up."
"Do you want—"
"I said shut up."
So he did.
"Colloportus."
The classroom door's lock clicked.
His hand skimmed the zip of her dress, as he dropped desperate kisses onto her neck and chest. She froze.
Her self-assuredness skidded to a halt. In a small voice, she said, "I've never done this before."
He almost couldn't hear her over the pounding of blood in his ears. "Neither have I."
Her hand dipped to the front button of his trousers. And he nearly came in his pants.
With his last coherent thought, he incanted, "Muffliato."
They laid breathless on the floor of classroom 2A, head to head. They were a mess.
His bowtie was undone; his dress shirt had a few buttons missing, and the front placket of his trousers was still open. His neck bore a blooming red mark.
Her wrinkled dress was rucked up to her hips. Her tights were ... somewhere. She was sore.
Draco dared a side glance at Hermione, who looked like she was doing Arithmancy equations in her head. His gaze floated over her body to the spot next to her.
Drops of smeared blood on the floorboard between them.
And he felt—he didn't know what he felt. Tenderness, perhaps.
Draco reached out to grip her wrist.
He was fucked.
Shite. Fuck. It wasn't supposed to end up this way.